


Saga

by Gilli_ann



Category: Brokeback Mountain (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Norse Religion & Lore, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clans, Cultural Differences, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, Marriage, Mythology References, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Slavery, Traditions, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 131,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/pseuds/Gilli_ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story set in Norse Scandinavia, inspired by Brokeback Mountain.</p><p>Einnis travels to the British Isles on a viking raid to win gold enough to pay the bride price for his chosen wife-to-be. The marriage will be an advantageous match for his clan. He returns home with Eoin, a captive Irish monk whom he originally intends to sell as a slave at the market.  But the Norns, the goddesses of fate, have other plans in mind for these two men who would seem to have nothing at all in common.</p><p>Through dramatic twists and turns over many years, and through difficulties, dangers and opportunities presented by the Norse culture and Norse way of life in war and peace, against all odds Einnis and Eoin's saga may eventually reach an unexpectedly happy conclusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The original Ennis and Jack who inspired this fic do not belong to me, but to Annie Proulx, Diana Ossana, Larry McMurtry and Focus Features. I intend no disrespect nor copyright infringement, and I make no profit from posting this.
> 
> This story is not to be copied from AO3 or used elsewhere by anyone for any reason without my explicit written permission.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who originally left comments on LJ and kept me writing and posting each new chapter. Without that, the story would never have been finished. And a big thank you to my wonderful beta and inspiring cheerleader, Soulan. :)
> 
> There are notes explaining specific Norse terms, names, customs, religious references and the like after each chapter. 
> 
> Certain chapters have depictions of sword-fights and violence, but in my mind, not enough to warrant AO3's "Graphic depiction of physical violence" archive warning. There also are certain references to and mention of rape when viking raiding abroad is the topic, but no direct depictions of rape.
> 
> This story takes place in Viking era Scandinavia, somewhat before AD 900. It was originally posted in my LJ in 2009/2010. It consequently was written and posted earlier than the airing of the History Channel's TV series "Vikings", and before "Thor", "the Avengers" and "Thor - the Dark World" hit cinemas.

When Einnis Elmarson traveled west on a viking raid for the first time at 19 years of age, he grabbed at every chance to lose himself in the rush and thrill of the violent skirmishes along the foreign coast.   
   
Looting and fighting gave him momentary release from a constant tension, an unease stemming from always being around other men in the cramped confines of their proud long-ship or in their temporary camps along the shores. Combat made him forget his occasional strong and shameful desires, which surely were frowned upon by the gods and his brothers-in-arms alike.  
                          
It was late in the summer, and time had come to prepare for the return home over the sea. Theirs had been a successful campaign, fairly rich in loot, but with few fatalities among their own, and no ship lost.  
   
During the last raid they pillaged a small up-river monastery. The place turned out to be disappointingly poor, but where gold and jewels wanted, humans were also a valuable commodity.  
   
A captive Irish monk fell to Einnis’s part of the loot and was dragged onboard the ship bleeding from the head and half unconscious. He had been knocked out during the attack while fending off two Norse warriors with a wooden pole, since he had no other weapon to hand.  
   
Einnis needed gold for the bride price so that his marriage with Arna Mjódsdottir could take place before Yule, the way he’d agreed it with her and her father. He planned on taking the Irish monk home to sell him at the Kaupang’s thrall market. The man looked healthy enough. He would fetch a good price.  
   
Little did either man know that the Norns were slowly spinning out different fates for them, - that their life threads would be forming strangely entwined patterns on the large loom of all men’s lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Kaupang -** Market-place. Several Norse townships with particularly active marketplaces were named Kaupang.
> 
>  **The Norns** \- The three Norse goddesses of Fate, who spun the life-thread of all humans, and who cut that thread when the time had come.


	2. Chapter 2

The _Raven’s Wing_ had gale winds at her back as she turned her tall stem homewards, flying over the seas like a bird crosses the skies. Her crew were lucky in this weather, for it brought them faster over the open stretches of sea, and they had cramped quarters onboard. The longship was built for speed, not for space or comfort. With close to 100 men onboard there was precious little place to move about or to sleep or rest, especially since they were bringing loot and a goodly number of new thralls back with them.

While their ship still sailed along the British coast, the crew went ashore at evening-tide to get fresh water, light fires and prepare hot food. Many of the men chose to sleep on shore near the ship, but their human cargo was kept onboard and guarded at all times. The captives huddled close together in the middle of the ship, partly sheltered by a piece of tarp fastened at deck level and stretched across to form a sort of rough lean-to. They were pale and wan from seasickness, fear and sorrow as they lost sight of their homely shores. 

The Norsemen laughed uproariously whenever one of their new thralls crawled over to the ship’s side to feed the fishes, as the saying was. The captives' miserable state and obvious inability to handle sailing and the ship’s movements found no pity with the warriors, accustomed as they themselves were to traveling at sea from a tender age. 

Einnis kept his own counsel, but took more than usual interest in the group of captives. He was after all the owner of one young Irish monk, who wouldn’t be much worth if he didn’t recover. And the man was having a hard time of it. He had been unconscious for some time after being brought on board. When he finally came to and opened a pair of blurred and unfocused blue eyes, he kept vomiting and showing signs of disorientation even while they were still in shallow coastal waters.

Einnis feared his prize might die. He shunted the other hapless thralls aside in order to personally see to it that his man managed to drink some water. He felt his pulse and brow and peered into his half-mast eyes, nudging the inert body repeatedly to get a reaction. Einnis grunted appreciatively when his charge muttered something and made a movement with one hand as if to ward his tormentor off.

The young man had dark sweeping brows, very like to two raven wings. Their longship was called the Raven’s Wing, and she had brought them fortune and fair winds all this summer. Einnis thought it a good omen that this man’s looks reminded him of the sleek black wings painted on either side of the ship’s tall stem, and so of the ship’s luck that followed her name.

He traced one of the Irishman's dark eyebrows with a fingertip, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. His own features softened as he looked down into that quiet face. His clenched jaws relaxed, and a small smile crossed his lips before they once more pressed sternly shut.

The captive muttered incoherently and twisted in his grip. The voice was soft and the language lilting. His hair was dark and fine, different from that of the Norsemen.

Einnis bent close over him and told him to rest and to take food, muttering that there was no reason for fear, that all would be well. The Irishman obviously didn’t understand him and didn’t respond, but he seemed to react to something in Einnis’s tone of voice and drew a deep, calming breath.

The young Norseman sat up to study the other captives. They were a sorry-looking seasick bunch, but there was a stout and capable-looking woman among them. She was eying him impassively while patting the arm of a younger woman who clung to her fearfully. The younger of the two was slim and pale and sobbing quietly, hiding a pretty face behind a long thick braid of reddish-brown hair. Whatever had happened to her before she was brought onboard, while she was on the ship she’d be left alone. Chieftain Harald Jarnhand kept strict and unrelenting discipline and would not tolerate any sort of unrest or fighting over women. The men had to keep order and see to their duties, and there was neither time nor place for more.

Einnis turned his attention back to the older woman and motioned to her to take over handling the young man, demonstrating how to keep him awake and check on his consciousness. She made a shushing motion, her mouth pulling slightly askew. Her eyebrows lifted in exasperated indication that she knew much more about healing than he did.

Einnis nodded, satisfied, and left the man to her care.

She moved over to sit next to the prone shape. The younger woman scrambled after her and kept clinging to her arm, silent tears still rolling down her cheeks.

Einnis returned to his place near the stern and spent the rest of the day next to his friend Torgeirr and some of the other men, who were going over ribald memories of conquests and swordfights during their campaign. They were all in high spirits now that they were returning home, uninjured and bringing riches. Their adventures and exploits became more impressive and daring with each tale told. Einnis listened, but said even less than was usually his wont.  


\- x - 

  
They crossed the northern point of the isles and set sail eastwards across open seas. Ennis had duties managing the sail, but otherwise had fewer responsibilities during the crossing and could take his time looking after his new thrall. The man had showed signs of improving, and had even accepted some food, but once they got out into open waters his misery increased. He had little resistance by now and got violently seasick, once more refusing to eat.

Einnis saw to him regularly, and he made sure that the Irish woman continued to take care of him.

Eventually, she spoke up and gestured to name herself. "Bronagh,” she said, her voice crisp. Next she pointed to the young man. “Eoin,” she enunciated carefully. 

Einnis nodded his understanding, but this brief exchange was as far as they got. He didn’t speak the Irish captives’ language and none of them spoke Norse.

\- x - 

By the time they got the Norsemen's home coast in view, Eoin was weak and cold and tired, but finally shot of his seasickness.

He thanked Bronagh sincerely for her care the first time he managed to get up and stand to feel the salty air against his face. It was refreshing. Wordlessly he studied the Norse and their ship, his eyes drawn to Einnis among the men by the stern. Then his gaze turned away out over the gunwale, seeking the distant rocky shore. He tightened the old piece of blanket he had wrapped around his thin body and swayed in time with the ship’s even movements.

In this manner he could be seen standing for long hours.  


\- x - 

  
The Raven’s Wing followed the coast south and then turned towards their final destination. The crew members were happy to be under land and to hear the gulls crying in welcome, but constant chilly squalls followed by rain made the journey tiresome. Everyone was cold, and by now they all stank. Tempers flared. Unkempt beards and hair made the warrior crew look like the worst among the famed berserker fighters.

A loud cheer and more than one word of praise to Thor and Njord went up as they rounded the promontory to travel the last stretch up to Kaupang.

The sea had turned dull and the wind had calmed to a mere occasional puff of air, by no means enough to fill the big square sail. Eager as they all were to get to shore, they set twenty pairs of oars in use, many strong arms making up for the limp sail’s failure. They were nearly home.

Einnis took his turn at his assigned oar, his powerful strokes splitting the sea in time with the others’ to get them into the harbor.

The captives however stared towards the wooden quays and the low buildings of Kaupang with mixed emotions visible on their tired faces. The hustle and bustle along the waterfront, the many vessels of different forms and sizes, the loading and unloading of cargo and crews, all of it seemed both familiar and foreign. They were getting off the ship at last, and their new lives were beginning. But in their current circumstances they were out of luck, and neither the fates nor the foreign gods were likely to prove kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thor** is the Norse god responsible for fighting the forces of chaos surrounding the world  
>  **Njord** is the god ruling the ocean  
>  **Jarnhand** means "Iron hand"  
>  **Thrall** is closer to the equivalent Norse word - "træll" - and I use _thrall_ in lieu of "slave", though these people were slaves who were bought and sold.  
>  **Longship:** Sleek open wooden ship, the quintessential 'viking' ship. The largest could carry well over 300 men, were called Drakkar (serpents) and had a carved dragon’s head at the stem.  
>  **Kaupang:** The words means "trading place" in general and was also the name of several Norse townships with notable market-places.


	3. Chapter 3

Eoin and the other captives watched and waited while the Raven’s Wing was being secured along one of the wooden wharfs, and her sail, rigging and oars stowed. The warriors were in a hurry and readied themselves eagerly to leave the vessel. They brought forth their various bundles and chests of goods which had been lashed together and stored under the boards. The men shook out their good cloaks, fastened sword belts and put their helmets on.  
   
Laughter, jokes and loud excited talk rang out from to stem to stern. The only silent ones were the thralls.  
   
Eoin could not make much sense of the guttural Norse language, but understood well enough which man considered himself his owner. His eyes followed the young golden-haired warrior who was readying his goods and gear. Eoin studied the man intently with a strangely puzzled frown on his thin, drawn face.  
   
Before long the Norseman signaled to him to come forward. They were about to leave the ship.  
   
Eoin turned to Bronagh and reached out his hands to her, and to the redhead, young Muirenn, who still followed the older woman as if she were her very shadow, though otherwise she was now much more composed.  
   
“I cannot thank you enough, good Bronagh, for your care and your kind company. May the Lord be with you wherever you go in your life. And with you too, Muirenn.”  
   
He made the sign of the cross over each of the disheveled women, and they bowed their heads in response.  
   
“Farewell, and good luck, Eoin of Telach Og,” Bronagh responded, her voice low. “Go with God. I hope we may meet again and that life will treat you kindly till we do.”  
   
“I hope so too. Good luck,” Muirenn added, her face sad and solemn.  
   
Eoin flashed them a bright but slightly lopsided smile, the first he had given anyone since being brought onboard the Raven’s Wing.  
   
“Oh, ladies, have no worries for me. Whatever these Norsemen may throw at me, and however they may treat me, I am quite sure I’ve already had worse from my father,” he said with a shrug. “I will make it through. And if God wills it, we will meet again back in Ireland and see our home at last.”  
   
Both women smiled bravely at these hopeful words, but as he turned to go the forced cheer abruptly died on their faces.  
 

\- x - 

   
Einnis watched their exchange from his position by the gangplank, where he stood ready to disembark with his friend Torgeirr. He saw the Irish man making his god’s sign over the two women, and snorted derisively.  
   
Torgeirr shook his head in response. “They keep making their god’s sign often enough, but I haven’t seen what good it ever does them, or that this god of theirs has any kind of help to offer,” he said. “However much they fall to their knees and call out to him to help them when our warriors attack, they are beaten and vanquished. They would have been better off wielding good swords.”  
   
Reflexively Einnis’s hand sought the silver Thor’s hammer he always carried on a thong around his neck, his amulet for luck and the Thunder god’s protection.  
   
“Thor is stronger,” he agreed. “Always a powerful helper, as long as you stay on his good side, and perform the offerings, and fight with courage.”  
   
Among the warriors there was no doubt that the fiery-tempered Thor, son of Odin, was due the most respect and admiration. He never rested from his quest to smite the giants and malignant forces surrounding Midgard. His hammer threw devastating bolts of lighting across the skies, and the awe-inspiring sound of his wagon rumbled far and wide over the mountains.  
   
The silver Thor’s hammer still in hand, Einnis watched the Irish man’s features light up with a smile, his whole face transformed and illuminated by that flash of white teeth. Ennis stared, for a moment transfixed in surprise, then hurriedly turned away to stare down at the stones and planks of the wharf.  
   
“Come on now, let’s get going”, he said, his voice gruff.  
   
Torgeirr nodded. It was their turn. “Let’s go,” he agreed.  
   
Einnis once more impatiently waved the thrall to follow. As soon as the man approached, he and Torgeirr descended the gangplank without a backwards look.  
   
They were on firm land, a strange feeling after having lived many a night and day with the sea’s constant motion and at the whim of Ægir’s daughters.  
   
Einnis was lucky in having befriended Torgeirr, who hailed from a farm to the south of Einnis’s own home. Not only had Torgeirr been on a raid before, and knew just where to go and what to do, but his clan was well off and owned a share of a combined storage house and sleeping hall at Kaupang. Einnis would be staying there till he had conducted his trading activity, purchases and sales, and so would be ready to return home to the farm at last.  
   
The two men walked along the wharf through the hectic bustle of people, Eoin in tow, moving through the press of hawkers of all sorts and warriors eager to get to the inside of an ale hall or a brothel.  
   
Torgeirr looked at Einnis, who like himself was carrying a small chest of possessions on his back, as well as his shield.  
   
“Why don’t you have this thrall of yours carry your chest for you?” he asked. “The sooner he is shown his place, the better.”  
   
Einnis shook his head. “He is weak still, and looks unwell. I am glad he survived at all. I need to get him in better shape to obtain a decent price.”  
   
Torgeirr held his peace after that, but pointed out to Einnis where the thrall market halls were, in the second row of wooden sheds and low wattle-built houses. As they approached the place, Einnis could see people walking in and out of the doors. Trade seemed to be going very briskly.  
 

\- x - 

   
Einnis left Eoin behind at the well-guarded thrall market, telling the manager of the place to let his thrall rest properly and to feed him well, and to see to it that he was given a shave, warm water and the use of a comb. He paid the tradesman his fee for these goods and services, and confirmed he would be back in a few days’ time to conduct his actual sales business.  
   
That done, Einnis and Torgeirr walked straight on to Torgeirr’s clan’s house.  
   
“I think you are making a mistake, not just selling that thrall today,” Torgeirr said.  “You saw how the trade there was lively. In a few days, perhaps, all interested buyers will have found what they came to Kaupang for.”  
   
“I’ll take my chances,” Einnis muttered. “I think I’ll get more, once he looks healthy and rested and well. Without those dark circles round the eyes.”  
   
With that their talk turned to other things.  
 

\- x - 

   
The two men dropped their belongings off at their destination, briefly greeted Torgeirr’s distant kinsfolk who were staying there at that time, got themselves a light meal, and went right on to visit the bath house.  
   
They sat in the low, hot, steam-filled room for the longest time, luxuriating in the feel of muscles relaxing, of sweat and dirt from the long campaign dissolving and being sluiced off their heated skin. They washed, had their hair, beards and moustaches carefully cut and trimmed, and at length emerged back into the fresh air, dressed in clean shirts and trousers, their wild berserker looks completely gone.  
   
Torgeirr was in high spirits, pounding Einnis on the back and laughing.  
   
“You’re a new man! Now it’s possible to see what you look like! I bet I’m no worse than you. Oh, I bet I look way better! Women will be falling over themselves to get close to us,” he chortled. “And the fresh coins and trinkets in our purses will not make our prospects worse!”

Einnis quickly ducked away from his antics, frowning slightly. He started walking. "Well then, what are you waiting for?" he called over his shoulder.   
   
Many of the Raven’s crew had already found their way to the main ale hall, and were sitting on the benches along the wall, well into the serious business of spending their loot, drinking heavily and pawing lecherously at the women, who were present for that very purpose. Shouts of boisterous greeting rang out to welcome Einnis and Torgeirr.  
   
The fire in the middle of the hall was big, and the overly warm hall dense with wood-smoke, so thick it could be cut with a knife. It was more than enough to make Einnis’s eyes burn and itch. He was too used by now to the fresh air of the open seas.  
   
He got himself a helping of good ale, and sat down with Torgeirr, the two of them drinking to each other’s health solemnly, saluting with the mugs before draining them in one go.  
   
Through the din and noise in the dim room Einnis suddenly thought he heard someone calling his name, and looked around searchingly. The speaker was a tall and burly man, clad in a sumptuous green cloak and sporting a noticeable scar down his right cheek, holding a big ale mug in one hand and the other reaching out towards Einnis.  
   
“Einnis? Einnis Elmarson Eldhug, is that you? Look at you, you’re a grown man, I hardly recognize you! Is that really you, brother?”  
   
Einnis stared at the approaching warrior in wonder. Now he recognized the man, though he could hardly believe his eyes.  
   
“Ketil! How come you here? We have thought you dead, and have mourned your passing, these five long years! Ketil!”  
   
Einnis was so stunned, he forgot to move. But his older brother was more agile, grabbing him in a bear hug, thumping his back and grinning at him delightedly.  
   
“I know, I know. It’s a long tale. But I’m alive, and well, and back home to stay at long last. And everyone calls me Ketil Efni now,” he added proudly. “Let’s get out of here, little brother. We have much to talk about!”  
   
Einnis followed him out of the hall, leaving a gaping Torgeirr behind.  
   
Ketil’s unexpected return was unlooked-for and beyond hope, and would delight their sister Sigrid immensely. Yet this changed many things, not least Einnis’s own prospects. His older brother would be first in line for the family farmstead, where Einnis and Arna had agreed to settle.  
   
Einnis would have to make new plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Telach Og** : The place-name means "Hill of youths."  
>  **Ægir’s daughters** is a Norse poetic term for the ocean waves  
>  **Efni and Eldhug** (“Material/means/ability” and “Fiery mind”): Ketil's and Einnis’s nicknames and the background for them will be explained in due course in the story. It was common for a lot of Norse men (and some women) to be known by this kind of distinctive nickname, usually referring to the bearer’s looks, character or some deed of his/hers.  
>  **Thor’s hammer amulets** were extremely common among the Norse. A considerable number have been found in connection with archaeological digs etc. They range from small and simple ones in plain silver, to elaborately decorated ones in gold.  
>  **Midgard** was the human world in Norse mythology, lying in between the gods’ realm (Asgard) and the giants’ chaotic and dangerous realm (Utgard).


	4. Chapter 4

Ketil and Einnis sat talking long into the night. Ketil was saddened and silenced for a moment by the news of the death of their parents, who drowned when their sleigh went through the ice on the fjord. They were returning home at the time from the midwinter blot festivities, in the first year after Ketil left. Einnis was fourteen years of age then and his sister was eighteen.  
   
“Sigrid and I have minded the farm, mostly, and we’ve made do, but it’s been hard going sometimes. This year was the first time I could leave to go on a raid,” Einnis said. “Sigrid will be beside herself with joy to see you again. She’s been in talks with a stone carver about putting up a rune stone to commemorate our father, our mother and you. But now the inscription will luckily be shorter.”  
   
He patted Ketil on the shoulder happily. “Oh, I _am_ glad!”  
   
Ketil for his part talked of his travels. He told Einnis how, after his ship was wrecked along the Swedish coast, he was picked up by an east-bound passing trade vessel, but not before he’d spent days without food on a bare rocky island. He’d gone for a while where fate and fortune took him, signing on to yet another ship bound for  the big eastern rivers, serving as a tradesmen’s guard. Later he’d joined up with a group of Norsemen who were raiding villages on the river banks, but they’d discovered that most of the settlements were too well defended.  
   
He’d traveled to Holmgard and Kiev, and once as far as Miklagard, and had eventually become a member of the king’s guard at Kiev, an assignment that lasted two years. He had experienced many strange and marvelous things before deciding to return home at last. The homeward journey in itself had lasted a full year, with many a stop and adventure along the way.  
   
Ketil was returning a reasonably wealthy man, he said, and let Einnis know the weight of gold and silver he was bringing home. Now he planned to settle on the ancestral farm, take a wife and try the quiet life. He’d had excitement enough to last him many lifetimes. Einnis and he would just have to find a good solution when it came to the farm and the inheritance.  
   
Einnis readily agreed. He wanted to be on good terms with his big brother. Clan and kin after all were the most important assets a man had in life.   

\- x - 

   
Over the next day they hammered out a plan for splitting the inheritance between the two of them and Sigrid according to the laws, largely based on Einnis’s suggestions and ideas. They couldn’t make final arrangements though without informing Sigrid, and Arna Mjodsdottir and her father would also have to have their say.  
   
The terms of Einnis’s and Arna’s betrothal would have to be changed for the brothers’ plan to work, and a breach of a betrothal agreement was no small matter. Einnis could be charged to defend himself at the Ting over that. Worse, they risked making an enemy of the highly respected and well-connected Mjod.  
   
Having reached a tentative conclusion, however, Einnis arranged his business at Kaupang accordingly. He bought himself clothes, various well-crafted tools, household goods and utensils, some bolts of fine foreign cloth, salt and spices, caskets of mead, and a board of _tafl_. He also bought an expensive blue wool cloak, beautifully worked and skillfully embroidered, warm and comfortable, and a simpler brown cloak as well. Both the brothers bought horses.  
 

\- x - 

   
After two days, Einnis went back to the thrall market halls and asked the keeper to fetch Eoin. He also requested the help of someone who spoke Gaelic – many Irish thralls passed though the town, after all, and on occasion interpreters were required. They presented him with a nearly toothless elderly man, who had come from Ireland himself, many years ago, and who had served his life in thralldom in the Kaupang trade houses. A pronounced lisp notwithstanding, the old thrall was known to be a decent interpreter.  
   
Eoin was brought out. He stopped short when he saw Einnis, and their eyes locked. Eoin looked clean and groomed and rested, with color in his cheeks and light in his eyes. Neither man broke his gaze as they sat down on the bench outside the hall.  
   
Einnis squared his shoulders, cleared his throat and stated his name and his clan in a clear voice, and named the place he called home.  
   
“You will be coming with me. I will not sell you. I intend to build new farm houses and to clear more fields. There will be much work to do. You will work on my farm. “  
   
He looked at the thrall intently while the old man carefully translated his words.  
   
For the second time in his life, Einnis got to see that bright and special smile, but this time it was aimed directly at him. For one split second it communicated a tentative delight that found a ready response in him. He looked away hurriedly and continued with his instructions.  
   
“Uh… hunh…..I am a fair man. As long as you do what work you are assigned, and do not cause trouble, you will have food and shelter and clothes, and the company of my household, thralls and servants alike.” He nodded. “And when we reach the farm, you will be known under the name of Jaran.”  
   
Eoin looked up sharply once this was translated. He drew a breath and shook his head vehemently, speaking rapidly, gesturing animatedly, and looking Einnis directly in the eye.  
   
“My name is Eoin, I am not this name you give me. I may be your thrall now, though God grant that may one day change, but I am still the same man, I am still me, I have my honour, and my name is Eoin of Telach Og! I will not be this….. this…. Jaran.”  
   
Einnis listened calmly to the nervous-sounding translation even though he had immediately grasped what riled the man so much all of a sudden. He came from good people and a respected clan, recognized pride when he saw it, and could understand it well enough.  
   
“I am not taking your name from you,” he explained patiently. “But the servants and thralls and the people of the farms and the village back home won’t be able speak your Irish name, so I am giving you one that is similar and that they can use. It will be your everyday name. You are still Eoin, that will not change.” He paused. “I give you my word that you will always remain Eoin to me.”  
   
The old interpreter looked at Einnis, the toothless mouth slightly agape, and his tired and rheumy eyes blinked in surprise. He diligently translated the words, however, and Eoin relaxed. He looked Einnis in the eye again and then bowed his head to him.  
   
“I thank you, Einnis Elmarson,” he said.  
   
This was the first time Einnis and Eoin exchanged words.  
   
It wasn’t till much later that Einnis thought to wonder why the thrall’s pronunciation of his own Norse name was completely flawless.  
 

\- x - 

   
They set off for home in the early morning light two days later, riding out of Kaupang with several heavily loaded pack animals in tow. In their group rode Einnis and Ketil, a free man that Ketil had hired, Eoin, Torgeirr’s elderly kinsmen Arni and Olaf and two of their servants. It was always wise to travel in strength. Torgeirr stayed in Kaupang and planned to return home later in the year.  
   
As their little party rode up slopes and down winding paths through yellowing woodlands, Ketil would talk much about his adventures in the East. He was a good and spirited storyteller and wasn’t shy about emphasizing his many impressive endeavors and exploits both on the battle field and in the bedchamber. His resourcefulness and strength in all situations had earned him the nickname of Efni among the Norse guards of Kiev for his skill with more than one type of broadsword, he said and grinned as he thrust his pelvis forward a couple of times to make his point.  
   
Einnis for the most part rode quietly next to his older brother, listening more than he spoke, but offering an occasional comment or question.  
   
Sometimes he would fall back to look after Eoin, who was now clad in his new brown cloak, and to teach him some further words of Norse. He pointed to clothes, equipment or things along the way, spoke their names, and had the thrall repeat each word till he knew its meaning and could pronounce it.  
   
Einnis enjoyed teaching the Irishman, who proved to have a quick and interested mind, and Eoin on his side enjoyed being taught. On more than one occasion they smiled at each other or even laughed heartily at Eoin’s innocent ways of twisting the Norse tongue.  
   
They had fair weather on their journey, the brisk fall air making their ride pleasant and invigorating. In this manner two days passed.  
 

\- x - 

   
One time Einnis returned to his brother’s side after having spent some more time riding next to the Irish thrall, Ketil looked at him with a frown.  
   
“Why are you spending so much time on that thrall? Who is he, anyway?”  
   
“He’s Irish,” Einnis offered. “He was captured during the last landfall of our raid.”  
   
“Why do you show him such care? Is he of good family, do you plan to ransom him?”  
   
“I don’t know anything about his family. He was with the monks in one of the Irish god-houses,” Einnis said.  
   
Ketil snorted. “A monk! Such creatures aren’t men! Why, I’ve seen men in the East who have had their manhoods removed. They live among their lord’s women and are weak and soft and perfumed, just like the women are – and sometimes they’re used as such. It’s enough to make a real man puke to think on it! And all those monks in their womanish garb aren’t much better, I tell you. It shames a man to have anything to do with such miserable, unnatural beings!”  
   
Einnis’s jaw clenched and his shoulders tensed under the new blue cloak. He looked down, intently studying his horse’s mane as he replied in a steady voice. “Be that as it may, brother, but this one’s a young and healthy man, and I need strong arms to serve me now I’m planning to rebuild the out-farm into a proper farmstead and to clear new fields.”

Einnis shrugged as if dismissing the subject. “The sooner the Irishman learns Norse, the sooner he can take orders and make proper use of himself, and find his place peacefully among thralls and servants.”  
   
Ketil was not easily silenced, though, and would not stand to be gainsaid. He turned on his mount to give the Irish thrall a withering look.  
   
“Monks! Living without women, on their knees for hours each day! I bet you they’re _ragr_ , every last one of them.”  
   
He spat on the ground, and his hand sought his sword hilt. “They should be put to the sword, without further ado. It’s an affront to the gods that such ones are allowed to live!”  
   
“Surely they aren’t all like that,” Einnis said. “There’s been no sign of any such behavior in this one. He’s tough and strong and bright, and showed courage and fighting spirit when he was captured. He survived an injury that might have killed many a man. He will be of good use on the farm.”  
   
He shook his head. “And anyway, why would the gods care? Didn’t Thor himself dress up in bride linen once, and Loki bear children of his own? How do you think that came about, then?”  
   
Ketil stared at him in surprise, his face turning an angry shade of red. “Brother, do not call the wrath of the gods down on us with such lack of respect and tactless talk! If what you say happen to be true, it was mostly Loki acted the woman, and you know his fate well enough – he’s chained up on a cold stone, tied with his own son’s guts, and is tormented with venom daily till Ragnarok. I’d say he got what he deserved!”  
   
“Sure enough. You speak the truth,” Einnis backed down placatingly. “Thor is my witness, I meant no offense.”  
   
Mollified, Ketil relaxed. “I know well enough you wouldn’t have anything to do with such creatures, Einnis. Your Irishman is solid enough, I’m sure.”  
   
He shrugged. “Let’s speak no more about such unmanly matters.”  
   
At that, the brothers kept their peace and no more was said about Eoin between them. But Einnis avoided Eoin for the rest of the homeward ride, and spoke no further words to him. He stayed steadfastly next to his brother, and hardly even glanced in the thrall’s direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Jaran** : Norse name meaning sword-wielder, soldier. An unusual name for a thrall.  
>  **Blot** : Offering ceremony in honor of the gods  
>  **Tafl** : A game played with carved pieces on a board, not unlike chess  
>  **Ragnarok:** The end of the world, the Norse Armageddon  
>  **Holmgard:** Russian Novgorod  
>  **Miklagard:** Istanbul
> 
>  **Rune stones:** Tall standing stones with inscriptions in the Norse runic letters, often commemorating someone who had died. Many such stones are known throughout Scandinavia, especially in Sweden. 
> 
> **Ragr:** Norse for homosexual. The Norse did not accept homosexuality. Accusing a man of being “womanish” in any way was a horrible insult, and especially when it came to sexuality. It was considered particularly shameful for a man to be on the receiving end if engaging in homosexual acts. KE’s views therefore by all accounts are in line with the public opinion at the time, but his vehemence indicates he’s the Norse equivalent of a scripture-thumping fundamentalist.
> 
>  **Thor and Loki:** The references Einnis and Ketil make to the gods Thor and Loki come from various salty Norse poems about them – well worth reading. Loki the trickster in particular is a fascinatingly multi-faceted character, sometimes a helper of the gods and sometimes destructive,, and in many ways instrumental to the end of the world. Loki’s eventual fate as described by Ketil comes directly from the Norse myths, but was punishment for Loki having orchestrated the death of the beloved god Balder, and not because of any sexual activities on Loki’s part. (Ketil is in fact twisting various elements of his religion together to find support for his bigoted views here… Sound familiar?) 
> 
> **Tings** : the Norse gatherings of free men where laws were made and disputes settled. Tings were the big events of the year, and people traveled there if they at all had any way of making it. The Icelandic, Norwegian and Danish parliaments are called “tings” even today (the Allting, the Storting and the Folketing, respectively).


	5. Chapter 5

The last leg of the road home took them past Mjod’s farm. Both brothers agreed there was no reason to delay the talks on how to handle the betrothal. In fact, their willingness to tackle the matter as soon as possible and before Mjod heard of Ketil’s return from others might well mean the necessary difference in their favor.  
   
It was early evening when they rode in among the low long houses to dismount in the courtyard. The farm was a goodly size and though it wasn’t the biggest in the valley, not one was better kept. Just as importantly though, Mjod was a respected man in the community, even-tempered and generous, and he knew the laws in every detail. Therefore he often was called on to judge disputes at the tings. His word was listened to and his opinions counted.  
   
Mjod’s men knew Einnis well enough to recognize him at once. One went to inform their master that his son-in-law had arrived, while another took charge of the visitors’ men and goods, helped lead the horses off and showed where to unload and stable them.  
   
A short while later, Arna Mjodsdottir herself appeared, accompanied by a thrall woman carrying a bucket of water and some cloths. A hectic blush tinged Arna’s cheeks flatteringly, and though her everyday dress was homespun and plain, she wore several strands of colorful beads between the two oval dress brooches, and also a headscarf of fine foreign cloth interwoven with silk threads. It looked newly tied, but still did not completely cover the wisps of hair that were escaping from her long brown braids.   
   
She smiled happily as she gave Einnis her hand.  
   
“Einnis, welcome home and well met!” she said. “I am glad to see you returning so soon, husband-to-be, and looking in good health!” Mindful that there were others present, she behaved with the formal restraint and dignity that custom required. Her gaze went to Ketil, interest and curiosity plain in her eyes.  
   
“I hope all is also well here with you and with yours,” Einnis answered in his turn and drew a breath. “Arna, perhaps you do not recognize him, but this is my brother Ketil. He has unexpectedly returned to us from long travels in the East, to our good fortune.”  
   
He didn’t have to say anything more. Arna’s face stiffened slightly, but her smile remained fixed in place and she welcomed Ketil politely before showing the both of them to the box bench in the house where they would be sleeping.  
   
“When you have had the chance to clean up and wash away the dirt of travel, there will be food in the hall, and my father will be there to greet you,” she said, giving Ennis a long searching look as she took her leave.  
 

\- x - 

   
Mjod received them with good food and excellent drink. Talk at the high table mostly circled around Ketil’s adventures in the East and also, for a brief while, Einnis’s raids in the West. The brothers heard news from the farms in the valley and from the home country, where there had been unrest and many rumors of war over the summer.  
   
When the meal was over and the tables had been cleared, Mjod asked his guests to remain seated, and signaled to Arna to come up from the women’s table to sit next to him. ““What we have to discuss concerns you too, daughter.”  
   
A bowl of ale and a drinking horn filled with mead was brought forth, and with that they were left alone and could speak freely.  
   
Ketil, being the older of the brothers and therefore representing the clan, spoke up first. After thanking Mjod for his hospitality and praising his household, he turned directly to the subject of the betrothal, laying out the new circumstances and the ways the brothers proposed that things be arranged. Einnis would take over the old outfarm, he said. It had fallen into disrepair and would need to be completely rebuilt, and though it currently was used for pasture, new fields would also have to be cleared so it could support a full household. But on the other hand, both brothers were returning home richer men than when they set out, and so instead of acreage they would be able to put forward a weight of gold and silver to pay Arna’s mundr and to serve as a respectable bride price, equivalent to her dowry - which would however have to be reduced compared to the previous agreement.  
   
Mjod heard Ketil out in silence, his face calm and observant, not betraying any thoughts. He asked some questions, and at this Einnis too broke his silence, responding with more details. The mead horn and the talk passed back and forth between the three men, and Arna sat quietly listening, eyes lowered but face intent.  
   
At last Mjod nodded his understanding of their proposal and turned to her. “What say you to this, daughter?”  
   
“I think it is good that Ketil Elmarson has returned and is here to speak for Einnis today, father. The support of a strong brother is of great value, it strengthens the clan, and just so will the kinship also be valuable for those who come to call Einnis and his brother their in-laws,” she responded evenly.  
   
Mjod let a tiny proud smile cross his face.  
   
“You don’t object to their proposal, then?” he queried mildly.  
   
“I don’t, father.”  
   
Ketil abruptly lifted the ale bowl and drank deeply.  
   
Mjod paid him no heed now but let his eyes rest on Einnis, considering the situation and weighing the options.  
   
“I am of one mind with my daughter in this”, he said at last. “It is well that your brother has returned, and that you both came here to sort things out so quickly. It is clear that you seek to be fair to Arna in what you have proposed, and to stand by your plight troth as a man of honor. But she is the last of my daughters that I marry off, and I will not see her become a lesser woman than her sisters. She will only marry a man who is the master of his own farm, so that she will move in the mistress of a household in her own right, and can carry the keys proudly.”  
   
He nodded in confirmation.  
   
“I therefore agree to uphold the betrothal despite altered terms, but I will also make full use of my right under the law to have the wedding delayed for one full year. This is my condition. If the outfarm is rebuilt and improved the way you plan it, so that you and Arna can move in there and live prosperously and well, then we will call each other proper in-laws in one year’s time and be in full agreement.”  
   
Ketil and Einnis exchanged looks. Einnis nodded. A relieved smile made his face light up with sudden delight.  
   
Arna’s hands lifted as if in involuntary protest at her father’s words, and her head twitched, but she pressed her lips firmly shut, looked down and spoke no word.  
   
Thereupon Mjod called for witnesses, and the brothers shook hands with him to seal their agreement. Arna still kept silent, but her hand gripped Einnis’s firmly when the time came for them to solemnly re-confim their troth. She held his hand and was smiling again by the time he gave her the coming-home gift he had brought for her; he’d found it in a box of treasures carried by a hapless group of Irish trying unsuccessfully to flee the Norse invaders. It was a small and beautiful golden trefoil brooch, clearly made by a skilled goldsmith, decorated with scrollwork and filigree, and with an inset of three large jewels. One was sky-blue, one showed translucent shades of brown, and the last was a crimson garnet, its tear-drop shape making it look almost like a splash of heart’s blood.  
 

\- x - 

   
The male thralls’ room was small, crowded and smelled strongly of damp straw and smoke, unwashed bodies and the stomach illness that ailed one of the men. Eoin tried bravely to get some rest and to sleep where he had been shown, sharing a narrow pallet in one corner with a tall thin man who kept farting loudly. Smoke from the unseasoned wood that had been put on the tiny open hearth hung heavily in the air. Snores and mutters filled the room.  
   
He was a long way away from the small monastery church suffused with lights, the stark simplicity of the novices’ hall and the monk cells with their cold bare stone floors, the silence at prayer, the beautiful chanting before the altar, the cloister gardens and fields.  
   
Now he even missed the fresh salty air and chill rain squalls on the Norsemen’s ship. A ship filled with barbarians and strangers! He would never know who among the monks had been killed, and how many managed to escape. He could only pray they were all of them alive somewhere. There had been no other monastery captives onboard the Raven’s Wing.  
   
The man next to him grunted loudly, then turned over and slammed an elbow into Eoin’s side, before snoring on, oblivious.  
   
The worst thing of all was the constant disdain. As a thrall he was invisible to most, it seemed, but some freemen looked at him with open contempt. As soon as his owner wasn’t around they’d send a cuff or a kick in his direction if he didn’t get out of their way or immediately do as he was told. He had recognized the look in their eyes all too well, having grown up with exactly that same disgust and scorn from his mother’s husband. “Father” was an ill-fitting word in his mouth.  
   
The thralls here at Mjod’s farm on their part were suspicious of a foreigner who couldn’t even speak properly, who took up space and needed a share of the food, who made a foreign god’s sign and probably thought himself far above them. Luckily they were worn out from the day’s labor and appeared largely disinterested in anything else than their solid portions of porridge and in getting to sleep, so Eoin had been left alone.  
   
He stared into the near-darkness, feeling ready to choke at the stench and lack of air. His eyes stung from the smoke and itched with dust motes from old crushed hay.  
   
He sighed. Only one person had looked directly at him, seen him for the man he was and sworn to keep doing so. But Einnis Elmarson had suddenly changed his ways. Perhaps that haughty brother of his had told him not to squander his honor and time on a lowly thrall. Eoin wasn’t blind to Ketil’s disdainful glares in his direction.  
   
Silent prayers didn’t help calm his mind, and at last he could lie still no more. He crawled over his snoring bedfellow and cautiously stepped over several other prone shapes to get to the door. Pushing it carefully open he made the sign of the cross and ducked through to the outside.  
   
The contrast of fresh air was surprising and so wonderful it nearly overwhelmed him. It was like emerging from one of the circles of hell to step back into the realm of the living.  
   
He had no real business being outside, he knew, although he could always use needing the latrines as an excuse. But he craved a little peace and quiet. He slinked around the house and the cowshed, stopping to lean up against the stable wall, staying hidden there by deep shadows. He listened to the comforting low noises of the horses in their stalls, and looked out over the silent courtyard to the main hall directly opposite.  
   
Rain-clouds had drifted in from the east, and the night was dark. But after a while he could nevertheless make out a few approaching shapes by the flickering light from the main hall’s torches. The bulky form of Ketil Elmarson was easily recognizable walking in front. The man behind him, who had to be Einnis, was partly obscured from view by a woman in a long trailing dress and with a brooch at her throat that glinted in the torchlight.  
   
The three of them stopped by the door of the house next to the hall. A few words were spoken, and with that Ketil ducked through the door and disappeared. But Einnis and the woman remained standing outside in the near-darkness, close together, heads inclined towards the other, seemingly speaking softly. As Eoin watched, the woman reached up and determinedly put both arms around Einnis’s neck, clinging close and offering herself up for kisses. Einnis responded with clumsy slowness at first, but did lean in to meet her. Then he put his arms around her firmly, kissing her in earnest now. Their two shadows in the night merged into one, holding the embrace, swaying slightly in the concealing darkness.  
   
Eoin looked away. It was getting very late and he shouldn’t be outside, away from the thralls’ room, loitering about in the dark. If he was discovered he’d probably be given a beating or worse. They’d surely assume he was up to mischief – thievery, maybe, or even flight.  
   
He returned to his pallet as quietly as he’d left. The smelly, noisy, stifling darkness fit his mood. He felt about as bad as he ever had, and that was saying something, for Eoin of Telach Og had not had an easy life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dowry, bride price, mundr** \- A woman who married got a dowry from her family. The husband had to present a “bride price” of equal worth. Depending on the family wealth, the values involved could range from multiple farms and properties to some few bolts of cloth. In addition the groom also had to pay _mundr_ , which was an additional gift/fee on the marriage contract. All this was required for the marriage to be legally binding (and hence for it to count in inheritance cases). Just as importantly from a woman’s standpoint today, the dowry, bride price and mundr all were the marrying woman’s legal property! Her husband would normally manage it in marriage, but if he squandered it, this gave her legal grounds for divorce, in which case all the remaining assets followed her out of the marriage. 
> 
> **Right to delay a wedding** – a betrothal was a legally binding agreement, but the laws did actually contain a clause allowing one party to demand up to one year’s delay in certain circumstances. 
> 
> **Norse women’s clothing** \- Normally an apron overdress over a longer underdress, and with a domed oval brooch at each shoulder holding the overdress in place. Between the two brooches there would be strings of bead necklaces as well as other jewelry, and also she might have keys, scissors, a fire striker etc. (depending on her duties and her station) hanging from the brooches or from a woven belt. Women also wore headscarves, and shawls when needed.


	6. Chapter 6

Sigrid Elmarsdottir was indeed astounded at seeing her older brother returned to life, but neither she nor Ketil had much time to spend on reacquainting themselves with each other or to sit over the ale bowls idly talking about times gone by. The first weeks after the brothers returned home instead went by in a blur of activity. It was the busiest time of year, the height of harvest, when the coming winter’s food for people and animals was gathered, processed, and stored safely away in outhouses and barns.  
   
The whole household was hard at work haying, harvesting the grain and leeks, and even cutting leaves. Every hand was needed, right down to the thrall children, who helped herd the sheep and milk the goats now that the adults were too busy, as well as went out into the nearby woods to gather berries and nuts to be preserved. And every last worker returned home voraciously hungry, so Sigrid’s women had a hectic time preparing unusually large quantities of food each day for the whole household. The low monotone whirr of the heavy stone grain-grinders could be heard all through the day, and pots were constantly kept boiling on the open hearths.  
   
The harvest went well. The weather proved favorable, by the good will of the gods, and the yield was decent enough though not at all exceptional.  
   
Without pause the farm activities transitioned into the annual slaughter of sheep and cattle, a necessary culling of the flocks. Every last part of each animal was utilized and preserved: The meat was salted, smoked or dried, and the skins and guts and tendons readied for use in many ways. No hand was idle from sunup to sundown.  
   
In addition to this hustle and bustle, people from the farms in the valley took time out from their own harvest and slaughter to ride over to meet Ketil, and to wish him welcome home of an evening. They had to be entertained with good food and better drink the way hospitality required. Einnis noticed that Ketil would linger over the ale bowls long into the night on such occasions, but his brother was a strong and healthy man, so nothing was said about it.  
   
On a few occasions Ketil rode out to pay visits of his own, politely seeking out the most significant men in the valley so that they did not need to bestir themselves on his behalf, and reacquainting himself with old friends and neighbors. He clearly enjoyed the attention his many exciting stories of far-away lands and daring adventures earned him. During such visits either Einnis or Sigrid would ride with him as custom dictated. Though they were most times more than tired, they never found it in their hearts to deny Ketil his requests to join him. 

\- X - 

   
Eoin had been settled in the thrall’s house as soon as he arrived at the farm. He had his own place on the sleeping bench along the wall, and a small chest for his belongings. In truth, the thrall’s house here was not much better than the one at Mjod’s farm, but having a place of his own helped. He grew accustomed to the stifling air, appreciating the warmth from the hearth in the chilly northern nights.    
   
The other thralls were friendly enough, though paid him little heed since he couldn’t talk with them. He was grateful for every kindness, and wondered whether they’d been specifically ordered to welcome him properly and to treat him well.  
   
During each day, whether at rest or at work, he’d be all ears and eager to pick up the meaning of new words and phrases. When darkness fell he would listen intently to the talk over the evening meal or the nightly games of tafl, ranging from idle comments about the day’s passing to long convoluted tales of the gods. Eoin looked forward to the day when he could join in the talk himself and speak up when he wanted to. He thought that the day wouldn’t be too far off, as he discovered in himself an unexpected knack for Norse pronunciation. His understanding of everyday talk increased by leaps and bounds so much so that he had to wonder about it.  
   
He was thrown out into the maelstrom of farm activities from the very first day, and fell back to old work habits from his childhood years. He took his place herding cattle and carting hay, chopping wood and bringing in seemingly endless buckets of water.  
   
There was a strange comfort and relief in having reached a destination where he could regain his bearings after the travels and troubles he’d endured ever since the Norse warriors descended on the monastery and so changed his life.  
   
As the days of harvest progressed, Eoin admitted to himself that Einnis Elmarson, for all his silences and distant ways, knew much more than the use of his sword and to sit a horse well. The Norseman proved a skilled farmer, directing his people with fairness and efficiency. Both hired hands and thralls paid Einnis the kind of attention obviously born of honest admiration, not of fear or mere duty. The men had nothing but respect for Einnis, but it was equally evident they were still a little cautious around Ketil.  
   
Eoin discovered in himself a grudging pride on Einnis’s behalf, as if he somehow had a legitimate stake in the other man’s – his owner’s! – honor and renown. He tried to dissuade himself of that notion, to continue to think as a free man would, but as day followed day the feeling lingered and even grew stronger.  
   
He saw Einnis often enough in passing. Their eyes would meet for a moment whenever their paths crossed in the courtyard or returning home from the fields. Each man’s gaze was drawn to the other’s, much as the hands of a greedy warrior will always reach out to grasp such tempting gold as fate places in front of him.  
   
But Eoin kept himself back, carefully remaining among the other thralls, and Einnis remained aloof. They spoke no word together until eventually, on one fall evening, Ketil and Sigrid rode off visiting far down the valley. Many an uneasy night had by then turned into weeks since Einnis came home to the farm.  
   
He decided to send for Eoin at last.  
   


\- x - 

  
When the thrall arrived, Einnis was sitting alone, brooding on the bench beside the high seat, clad in a blue tunic, a drinking horn placed on the table in front of him. People were at work in the hall clearing tables and tidying the benches after the evening meal, but otherwise he was alone. Without looking up he motioned for the thrall to come sit down on the bench next to him.  
   
He leaned his head back against the wooden wall tiredly, looking straight ahead and pondering for a moment before speaking as if to the whole room in general.  
   
“How are you faring here at my farm, Eoin?”  
   
“I do well here,” Eoin carefully assayed, wrapping his tongue around the proper sounds and appreciating the use of his given name. It warmed his heart that the Norseman held to his word.  
   
Einnis’s brows shot up, and he glanced at the thrall. A small smile appeared on Einnis’s lips and lent warmth to his shadowed eyes.  
   
“You have learned our speech! You can speak, and you look well, that’s good. I’m glad,” he said plainly and carefully after a moment. “The work is not too hard?”  
   
Eoin shook his head. “Used to work… hard,” he responded, trying his best not to trip over the words.  
   
“The men treat you well?”  
   
“Yes, Einnis Elmarson. The men treat…I…well.”  
   
Einnis turned to look at him directly, his gaze suddenly so eager and intent that Eoin felt singed by the impact of it.  
   
“You are a long way from Ireland, and live among strangers here. I thought perhaps you would pine away with the need and wish to go back home. Some do.”  
   
Eoin nodded his understanding, then shook his head pensively. “It is not so…bad? I do not …pine..…much.” He considered that for a moment, and looked up into Einnis’s eyes, amending his reply. “I do not pine much…. for home”.  
   
A faint blush of heat washed over Einnis’s cheeks, and he reached for the drinking horn, taking a deep and deliberate drink. He did not reply. For a while they sat in silence. Einnis absent-mindedly studied the silver scrollwork on the drinking horn in his hand, tracing the intricate patterns round and round, back and forth with a calloused finger. Eventually he looked up, expression determined and serious.  
   
“Well, there’s no use in pining and longing and wishing for the sun and the moon and the dwarf treasures hidden in the deepest mountains, or so I’ve always found,” Einnis said, and to Eoin’s surprise he offered the thrall his drinking horn.  
   
 “Be content with what the fates decide to give you. Here, drink deep and long of this, and let it bring you some little joy tonight.”  
   
Eoin accepted the horn gladly and lifted it to his lips. His eyes never left Einnis’s, but widened in amazement when the distinct aroma of the drink met his nostrils. This wasn’t ale, nor even ordinary mead. It was the finest, most expensive mead to be had, exquisitely honeyed and sweet as the songs of the Lord’s own angels, the kind of mead that princes would drink at festivals and high days and surely feel themselves lucky in tasting. It met his tongue like a loving kiss, its delicious warmth and sweetness spreading through his whole body like caresses and fire from within.  
   
He closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure as he drank, unable to stop, tipping his head back, draining the rest of the mead slowly in a long, sensuous draught. His eyes were hazy with bliss when they opened at last, the tip of his tongue sneaking out to lick mead foam off his upper lip.  
   
Einnis was watching him silently, unable to look away. For a moment they both held their breaths.  
   
Then as before, Einnis’s jaws clenched and he determinedly broke eye contact. Removing the horn from Eoin’s unresisting hand he put it back on the table, his own hand moving on to seek the silver Tor’s hammer in the chain around his neck. His eyes roamed from one end of the hall to the other cautiously as he slumped back on his seat and made a weary and dismissive gesture.    
   
Eoin lowered his head and nodded. He glanced around the hall too. The relatively few people present were occupied with getting their duties done for the day, and not a one of them was looking their way.  
   
He summoned up courage to dare touch Einnis’s shoulder fleetingly as he rose to leave, casting about for something to say that might cheer the other man. Who knew when next he would have the chance to speak this freely, the two of them so completely on their own?  
   
“The thrall room has … stranger people. No space. Here with you, this place you have… where you are….feels good… like… like Breidablik!” he said, ending on an enthusiastic high and grinning a little with relief at having managed that last difficult word.  
   
Caught off guard, Einnis looked up and met Eoin’s grin. He couldn’t help smiling himself, then broke out in a hearty laugh at the unexpectedly complex and exaggerated compliment. Eoin joined in, delighted that he’d managed to lighten Einnis’s somber mood.  
   
Einnis shook his head as he chuckled. “It seems to me you have somehow learnt that flattery will get you far, and in Norse at that, Eoin, if you claim that our plain and simple hall equals Baldur’s great and glimmering one in any way.” He smiled at the notion for a moment, then grew serious.  
   
 “But if you know that much, you may also have heard say of Breidablik that nothing unclean and nothing unholy is allowed there, ever.” He bit his lip. “Therefore you are more right in the comparison than you can possibly know, for the same may surely be said of my clan’s halls, and nothing will change that, not ever.”  
   
Eoin turned serious in his turn and looked at him uncertainly. Einnis’s words were too difficult for him, and spoken too quickly. He didn’t understand them. Even so, he did recognize the sentiment behind them, visible as it was in the speaker’s posture: A return to unease and sadness. He stood there at a loss for a moment, not knowing what to do, and having no right to remain unless ordered to. There was no other choice for him than to step back down to the hall floor and to leave, suddenly back in a strange and incomprehensible world.  
   
The wide bench spaces along the walls, half hidden behind wooden pillars, were much larger than the thralls’. As he passed them to leave, Eoin wondered for a split second which one of the boxed-in sleeping bench spaces would be Einnis’s.  
   
Worries or no, the glow of the mead stayed with Eoin all through the night. He called up Einnis’s handsome looks, strong body and smiling face before his mind’s eye, and was glad that the other thralls were sleeping deeply and noisily. He couldn’t avoid making some noises of his own as he most sinfully took himself in hand, strong rhythmic pulls stoking the fire in his body. It flared bright like the sun for a moment before leaving him limp, content and drowsy.  
   
The very last thought to flitter through his mind had him wondering whether Einnis shared his sheltered bench with some woman or other, or if he too spent the night alone. Then sleep took him, and he knew no more.  
 

\- X - 

   
The entire household looked eagerly forward to the Disablot as the busy season calmed down at last. The offering ceremony marked the end of fall by honoring the powers of fate, death and renewal, giving them thanks for the harvest and asking their protection though the cold winter months ahead.  
   
Unlike all other offering ceremonies, this one took place on the farm itself and so involved the whole household as participants. No outsiders were allowed to be present, though, for fear of offending the goddesses and arousing their anger.  
   
The offering started at noon with the ritual slaughter of a horse. This responsibility had now passed from Einnis to Ketil as the new master of the household, and he made very sure to perform it with particular care. The rites’ words rang out over the courtyard loudly and clearly, and the long knife found its mark without hesitation. Once the horse’s blood had been given in sacrifice, it was up to Sigrid, the mistress of the farm, to lead the rest of the ceremonials when they resumed later in the day.  
   
Eoin kept himself away from the blot ceremonials. As soon as he realized what was happening, when the sturdy and decorated horse was brought forth through the excited throng of people in the courtyard, he quietly sought his bench in the empty thrall’s house and settled down for rest and silent reflection.  
   
When everyone gathered in the hall for the rituals inside, an irritated Ketil told one of the men to go get the Irish thrall, and to be quick about it. “The goddesses will be angry if we do not all of us gather here to honor and thank them.”  
   
Einnis, sitting next to him, put a restraining hand on his arm and shook his head at his brother. “Leave the thrall be. I think the powers would like it less if we brought someone into the hall who would not be honest about joining in the rites. You can try to make him participate willingly, but I believe he would refuse.”  
   
Ketil arched an eyebrow as he looked down at Ennis’s hand on his arm. “He is just a thrall. We can make him honor the goddesses - by force, if it comes to that.”  
   
Einnis cast a glance towards the door and tensed in his seat. “Perhaps so,” he conceded in a low voice. “But I know the man. You may have to beat him senseless to make him obey you. I can’t afford to lose a strong worker that way, not with the plans for my farm. I need all hands, healthy and whole.”  
   
Ketil wanted to object, but this time Einnis didn’t give him the chance to speak.  
   
“It would find no favor with the powers, Ketil, if we disrupted the blot with violence to force a man to honor them. Let Jaran be. What powers a man let rule his life is for him alone to decide.”  Einnis looked towards the doors again with a sudden frown. “If the goddesses are angered by this, I would think it is Jaran they will take it out on. They will punish him - unless his own god can protect him.”  
   
Ketil could not fault his brother’s reasoning. On his travels he had met many followers of Christ who obviously hadn’t been stricken by the gods. And he’d visited the Christian god’s mighty church in Miklagard, much bigger and more impressive than any other building he’d ever seen. A power strong enough to raise such an immense structure should not be easily dismissed. Better to let the powers fend for themselves if they felt slighted. Skadi, Freya and Hel all knew a thing or two about punishing those who crossed them.  
   
“Very well,” he said curtly and shrugged, taking a deep draught from his horn, and waving their man off impatiently. “You are right. If the goddesses are affronted by the thrall’s behavior, he will be the one to feel their wrath. So leave him be, and close the doors. No uninvited spirits or powers must be given access tonight!”  
   
The doors were ceremonially barred, and the buzz in the hall intensified to excited fever pitch. The blot followed its proper course, according to every rite and custom. Sigrid spoke the sacred incantations, and personally served each and every household member a helping of horsemeat, prepared for long hours in the cooking pits behind the hall. The ritual meat was deliciously rich, with a distinct flavor that complemented the other food and drink, available in abundance.  
   
Everyone fell to with delight and healthy appetites. But Einnis’s glance strayed to the doors more than once, and a worried little groove remained etched between his eyebrows all through the night’s festivities.  
 

\- X - 

   
Time passed quickly, and the first frost night had come and gone by the time Ketil and Einnis finally had time to ride to the out-farm to review it and to plan all the work to be done there over the winter and early spring.  
   
Einnis as was his wont wore the blue cloak, a heavy silver brooch pinning it firmly in place on his right shoulder. It was a cold, bright morning, and the horses had been frisky at first, but now the brothers rode at ease, several of their dogs following excitedly in their wake. Every single breath they took showed up as puffs of cold mist. Nature was turning towards winter, the fields already brown and bare and offering a playing ground for the cawing crows.  
   
Pale sunlight from the east picked out the contours of each rock and tree along their way, and illuminated the far hill pastures. The brothers could see a flock of sheep moving in the distance, each animal small as a bug on a yellowing cloth. The sheep were foraging among the last limp grasses on the hillside, two herders following as the flock trekked onwards in search of better grazing. One of the herders had a long brown cloak on. Einnis followed that cloak with his eyes as long as possible, until a curve in the two riders’ path hid the pastures and the far-away herder from view. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Breidablik** – means “the one that glimmers far and wide” and is the bright god Balder’s home. Balder may be considered the Norse pantheon’s Christ figure. This is what the source material, the prose Edda, among other things has to say about Balder: “He dwells in the place called Breidablik, which is in heaven; in that place may nothing unclean (unholy) be.” 
> 
> **Horse meat/Horse offerings** – the Norse religion’s ceremonies were closely connected with the offering of horses to the gods and subsequent meals of horse meat, so much so that once Christianity was (forcibly) introduced as the Scandinavian countries’ only religion (ca AD 1,000), it actually became illegal on pain of heavy fines to eat horse meat. It was considered a deliberately heathen and therefore blasphemous activity. ( 
> 
> **Diser** – An assorted group of fertility/fate/death goddesses, among them the Valkyries, the Norns, and Freja, Skadi and Hel. 
> 
> **Freya** was the main Norse goddess, fertility and sexual love (but also death) her domains. 
> 
> **Skadi** was a giantess-turned-goddess. She was a revenge goddess, and was the one to bind a venom-dripping snake over the bound Loki’s head. She was also named the “ski-dis”. (This being Scandinavia one did of course need a ski-goddess !). 
> 
> **Hel** was the sinister keeper of the realm of death that lay “northwards and downwards”. She was Loki’s daughter. 
> 
> **Disablot** This offering ceremony was held at the beginning of winter. It was very public in Sweden, but strictly private in Norway and Iceland. King Olaf Haraldsson "the holy"’s court bard Sigvat tells in one of his surviving poems how he was turned away from a farm where he wanted to stay the night in dreadful weather. The custom of hospitality was broken because a private _blot_ was going on inside so that no strangers were allowed. (Sigvat, a Christian, was *not* happy about being thus chased off in the night.)
> 
>  **The mighty Church in Miklagard (Istanbul)** – it is the Hagia Sophia that Ketil has seen. It is known for a fact that Vikings visited the church more than thousand years ago because of ancient runic inscriptions that have been found. A viking called Halvdan carved his name there in the 9th century, and other similar inscriptions have also been found.


	7. Chapter 7

When the brothers reached the out-farm and dismounted, Einnis noticed that Ketil was wearing his finest sword, the one he had named Holmhogg. He had won it in holmgang, a formal duel to the death with one of the other Norsemen at Kiev, or such was his tale about it. It had an exceptionally well-worked leather sheath, the hilt had inlays of gold, and the slim blade was as finely wrought as any Einnis had ever seen. Ketil normally wouldn’t wear it except when visiting at the largest farms and manors in the valley.   
   
Ketil himself made no mention of it, and they set to looking around with keen eyes, surveying the outfarm fields and discussing where and how much land needed to be cleared. The ground that had been hard in the early morning had now thawed, and they walked among wild briar bushes and brown trailing grasses. Prickly thistle seed balls fastened to their cloaks, and fluffy remnants of late-blooming wildflower seeds hovered around them in the air as they passed in the pale sunlight.  
   
There wasn’t much left of the old farm itself. It had been a simple little place from the first, and had come into the clan’s possession with their great-grandmother as her dowry. While the fields had been used, the main house had collapsed, and there was little enough left of the surrounding outbuildings. Only the little smithy stood firm, away from the rest of the buildings and close to the nearest copse of trees, its sturdy stone walls impervious to time’s slow passing.  
   
Some of the main farm’s stonework was good and the foundations could be re-used, which would help greatly in raising the new and larger farm. Einnis looked around what would be his courtyard with a critical eye, seeing the stone-built fences and the new houses rise before his mind’s eye. A proper log-built hall, a combined stable and cowshed, storehouses and a milking shed….. a house for thralls and servants, and one for Arna’s and her women’s cooking and weaving. More would have to come later.   
   
They talked over the quantities of timber, peat and rocks that would be required and had to be ready and waiting before the actual building commenced. Ketil clapped Einnis on the shoulder encouragingly and chuckled.  
   
“You’ve set yourself a task not much less daunting than that of Blast when he offered to build fortifications round all of Asgard in three seasons!”  
   
Einnis smiled back at him. “It feels good to get started. This isn’t impossible, as long as I have use of the men you’ve promised me. Many hands make light work, as the saying goes. And remember, Blast would have succeeded but for Loki and his wily ways.”  
    
“You’re right. We’ll just have to make sure there’s no Loki around to distract you…or your horse, for that matter….”  
   
They shared a good laugh, the sound loud enough to make the hobbled horses pick up their ears and turn to look at them.  
   
Ketil grew serious. “You’ll have the men, as long as the gods grant it.”  
   
He looked out over the old decrepit farmstead, covered in the wilting remains of clinging summer weeds. Birch saplings were shooting up tall between the fallen and rotted timbers.  
   
“I have not thanked you enough, brother, for all the work you have done on our farm, and the good will you have shown me and my rights after my return. I know it was hard to become the master so young, it took courage and endurance to shoulder all the responsibility and all that work, and it must surely be harder than all that to have to give it up again like this, to start all anew.”  
   
Einnis lowered his gaze and kicked a few times at a tuft of brown grasses. “It is the right thing to do, Ketil, it’s not such terrible hardship. I feel a stronger man for your return. Bare is the back of the brotherless man, as the saying goes.”    
   
“You are full of old sayings today, Einnis,” Ketil smiled. “But it seems right that way. A new start on a new farm is a solemn occasion, worthy of many a word of wisdom, and worthy of costly gifts, too. And so….”  
   
His hands went to his belt and released the sword sheath, gripping the weapon firmly and holding it out in front of him with both hands.  
   
“I would gift you with Holmhogg, brother. It seems to me you have grown up to be a good man, strong, courageous and generous. You are everything a real man should be, and one who I am proud to call my brother and to show my admiration for. You do the clan honor. When you have sons of your own there will be no better example for them to live up to. Now carry this sword to good fortune for us all.”  
   
Einnis received the weapon from Ketil reverently. It felt much heavier in his hands now than when last he held it.  
   
“I will treasure this, brother, and take good care of it.” He drew the sword from its sheath and studied the blade, gleaming dully in the sun. He tested its sharpness with his thumb, a crimson line appearing on his skin, and drew a deep breath.  
   
“May the gods grant that I always live up to your good opinion of me and prove worthy of this heirloom for our clan,” he said quietly and determinedly.  
   
With that Einnis carefully put away the sword, and they stood in silence for a moment before returning to their horses to ride back home.  
   
Nothing more was said between them on the matter of Holmhogg, but Einnis kept the sword safe among his most valuable possessions, treasured it and was after seen to wear it on special occasions and high days.  
 

\- x -

   
So began the work on Einnis’s farm, which he intended to call Einstadr according to tradition. He had with him five free men and four thralls, Eoin among them, and horses enough for all of them and their gear. They brought along most of what was needed, - food and tools and clothes, and intended to work each day for as long as there was daylight. The year was moving rapidly towards midwinter, and the daylight hours were dwindling day by day.  
   
The men slept close together in two tents that they erected by the nearest copse of wood. The tents were made of thick canvas, and were the same kind that ships’ crews would use when sleeping ashore. They had a large fire going in front of their temporary homes, for warmth and for cooking their food on.  
   
Einnis however slept by himself in the old smithy out in the field, about as far away from the tents as a strong archer might shoot his arrow. They’d made quick work of putting in place a makeshift wooden door and roof on the little building. Within the smithy’s ancient and sturdy stone walls there was just enough free floor space to place a sleeping pallet on, and to safely store such food as wouldn’t stand freezing temperatures, as well as several barrels of ale. There was also an ancient and solidly built hearth.  
   
Sigrid sent a man up every week or so with a new supply of bread, cheeses and freshly churned butter, as well as anything else that Einnis sent word that they needed. Otherwise the men were on their own, and at first they had a fine time of it. The weather was not too cold, and though it was raining now and then, they also had some sunny days, mild for the time of year, and made good progress.  
   
They started out by clearing the new fields. This involved removing rocks, and was heavy work. They used horses to pull the heavier rocks away, and to pull wooden sleighs filled with smaller rocks. The men relied on crowbars and their own strength to remove the smaller ones. Rocks of serviceable size went directly into the building of low and solid stone fences to mark the cleared fields and the entrances leading to the new barn and the farmyard, or were heaped up to be used during the building of the farm houses.  
   
Einnis made very sure to treat the men equally, to be fair to all and partial to none, and to work himself harder than he did any of the men. He rarely talked to Eoin, and when he did, he kept his eyes to himself and his focus on the work at hand. The thrall looked less content than the other men, and sometimes seemed sorrowful, but nevertheless worked as hard as anyone. He made a determined effort to practice his Norse whenever he could, doing his best to find his place less as an outsider and more as one who belonged there among them.  
   
One time, when Einnis was battling a particularly recalcitrant rock, straining at the crowbar with all his might, Eoin came up behind him to help, placed his hands next to Einnis’s, and joined his full weight to the effort. His body pressed up against Einnis’s while they struggled and pushed, and one of his hands slipped down the bar to cover Einnis’s. The rock came loose at last, and they stood for a moment side by side, neither looking at the other, both bent forward, hands supported on knees, panting and gasping from the exertion.  
   
Svein, who had been long at the farm, was a trusted man and had earned the right to speak his mind freely with the master. He shook his head at Einnis accusingly. “We had better use the horses for rocks that heavy. Look how you sweat, and how your hands are shaking! Be careful not to work yourself too hard. The farm will be of little use if you don’t have your health when you move in.”  
   
Einnis didn’t say much in response, but dried the sweat off his face with his sleeve and walked over to the copse behind the tents where the horses’ lean-to was. His men thought he probably rested there a little while, since it took some time before he returned.  
   
Eoin resumed work on his own, eyes downcast. He kept his own counsel and remained silent.  
 

\- x -

   
The men worked steadily, the farm lands were taking shape nicely, and they were in high spirits, telling sagas around the fire in the evening and enjoying their large and well-deserved bowls of ale. But then the weather worsened, with constant cold rain that turned to sleet at night, followed by wet snow that would melt during the day. The rocks now proved icy cold and slippery, and much harder to move. The work was made even more difficult by the hard-working horses, since their hooves churned the fields into large expanses of cold and sticky mud. As day followed day in this manner, less work got done, and the men felt increasingly cold, short-tempered and miserable. They missed their womenfolk too, and could hardly be cheered, even when Sigrid sent up specially-prepared food treats and more woolen blankets, and Einnis increased the volume in the evening ale bowls.  
   
Then one of the men, struggling to move a rock with his bar, slipped on the treacherous ground just as the rock came loose. It fell over, the heavy weight pinning his leg. When the others hastened to free him, it was evident that the leg was broken. They set the bone as well as they could under the circumstances, and had him transported back to the farm for Sigrid to use her medicinal plants and healing powers on.  
   
Some few days after that, they heard word from the farm that one of Sigrid’s most trusted serving women had collapsed on the plain hall floor as if struck down by lighting. Though the woman lived, she had no use of her right arm and leg, and could not speak.  
   
The men started grumbling to themselves that fate had turned against them, and against the farm. Their unease grew even further one morning when they discovered a few distinct bear paw marks in the mud under the trees near the tents. There had been neither sight nor sound of the animal, the dogs had not given warning, and any normal bear surely should be hibernating peacefully in its den. It seemed that no ordinary bear had visited their camp in the night, but rather a fylgja or some shape-shifting spirit, intending to warn them off.  
   
These ominous portents were discussed in whispers as soon as Einnis turned his back or left the men alone.  
   
Eoin sensed the mood and was influenced by it, but did not understand all that was said. Moreover, the men started falling silent when he was near, too. Suddenly they were eyeing him with skeptical frowns, whereas before he had seen friendly acceptance.  
 

\- x -

   
Einnis hoped that fresh meat would help cheer the men and do them all good, as hard as they worked. It might calm the mutterings and grumbling, and spur the work on. One day therefore, he took the best tracker among his men, left the others to their work, and rode off armed with bow and arrow to see if he could luck upon a stag or a moose.  
   
And luck was indeed with him, for they quickly came across the tracks of a small moose on some soggy patches of woodland. The dogs took the scent and followed in the track’s direction eagerly, leading the riders to where they soon had the animal in sight. Einnis was a good shot, with a steady and true aim. As the dogs rushed forward to stall the moose, his first arrow brought the animal to its knees. After that it was an easy task to finish it off.  
   
They did a quick job of the butchering, bringing most of the animal back on a makeshift travois made of long slim birch saplings lashed crosswise over the back of their sturdiest horse.  
   
Coming out of the woods with their prize, Einnis noticed at once that something was wrong. Evening was falling fast, but there was still more than enough light to work by. Even so, no-one was to be seen in the field where he had left the men earlier in the day. A couple of horses stood in the muddy sleet, patient and forlorn, one of them harnessed to a half-filled sleigh.  
   
Einnis looked around, puzzled.  
   
Loud and angry voices alerted him to the men’s whereabouts. He spurred his horse in their direction. The sight that met him took him aback. Eoin was standing with his back against a tree, holding a crowbar firmly in front of himself. There was a red, angry mark clearly visible on his cheek. Two of the men were standing right in front of him, while the rest hung back uncertainly in a group, watching. Several of them were carrying crowbars. The two in front had clenched fists as if spoiling for a fight.  
   
“You insulted the gods!” one of the two called out.  
   
“Let’s stop him!” the other shouted, equally loudly.  
   
“The powers are angry!” a third one chimed in from the group in the rear.  
   
A red fog rose before Einnis’s eyes. He was off his horse in one leap and threw himself in among the men with a shout, pushing several out of the way, violently kicking one of the two assailants to the side and punching the other one full in the face to send him toppling. He rounded on them all, enraged, hands on his sword hilt, ready to draw.  
   
“By Thor’s hammer, do you want to lose your teeth, the lot of you? Or your heads, maybe? Step back! Step back!” he roared.  
   
The men fell back before his anger, used as they were to taking his orders, and frightened of reaping death or the life of an outlaw if they harmed him. They all looked either shamefaced, frightened, or shocked into silence.  
   
Einnis drew a deep breath, forcing himself back to a semblance of calm. He looked at the man on the ground.  
   
“What has gotten into you? Why are you threatening Jaran?”  
   
He got no reply except an indistinct mutter and a shuffling of feet from the men standing by.   
   
“You, Svein! Answer me! What’s been happening here?”  
   
The man stepped forward reluctantly.  
   
“There have been ominous accidents and portents, Einnis Elmarson,” he replied slowly. “It seemed to some that the gods may be displeased.”  
   
He looked at Eoin over Einnis’s shoulder. “Then some remembered how the thrall Jaran didn’t join in the Disablot. And many have remarked on the strange way he talks, and seen how he makes the sign of a foreign god. Who knows what powers he is invoking? Who knows what he asks those powers to do?”  
   
Einnis shook his head and raised his voice another notch in irritation.  
   
“And this, you deemed, was reason enough to rob me of a strong and healthy worker without even coming to talk to me about it first? Which one of you was planning on paying me the fines for damaging my property?”  
   
The men ducked their heads uneasily. Einnis pressed his advantage.  
   
“Superstition and nonsense! There is little if any power in that sign the thrall makes. I’ve seen the Irish do it often enough, praying to their god for protection, before they were cut down by the swords just the same. And if Jaran has angered the gods, they would surely punish him and not the rest of us. Come to your senses!”  
   
He glanced behind himself to Eoin, who still looked very tense and ready for a fight, even though he had lowered the crowbar.  
   
“Are you much hurt?” Einnis asked in a low voice.  
   
Eoin shook his head. “No, not much. It will heal soon. But I am glad to see you,” he replied calmly, though he bit his lip. ”It got bad… fast. It would be hard to…win… against so many”.  
   
“Which one of them hit you?”  
   
“No matter, now. It is over. They know it is wrong.”  
   
Einnis smiled at him. “Well spoken, and true.”  
   
Reassured that he had indeed arrived in time, before things got out of hand, the rest of his mindless fury dissipated and Einnis turned back to his men.  
   
“I know that there have been mishaps that can’t be explained, and there is every reason to think about the gods’ intentions. But I also see clearly that you are barking up the wrong tree here. When next you want to do the gods’ work for them, I want you to talk to me about it first. Is that clear? You may have to fight your way through me if I do not agree. I will not tolerate that any of my thralls are maimed or killed for no good reason!”  
   
He made a dismissive gesture.  
   
“Now, enough of that. I have brought fresh meat for us to feast on tonight, let’s start preparing the meal! And as for the thrall, he will sleep in my house from now on. That way you won’t be bothered by his signs, and I will have assurance that he can continue to work on the farm, that he remains well and whole and isn’t mysteriously hurt in the night!”  
   
The men were relieved to be let off the hook, and turned eagerly to the task of settling the horses for the night, cutting up the moose, and preparing the meal.  
   
They all ate and drank with voracious relish, stuffing themselves thoroughly and feeling more content by the minute. Eoin, who sat quietly next to Einnis, ate his fill just like the rest. The Irishman bit off big chunks of the moose steak and chewed hungrily. His cheeks bulged, but even so he still managed to send small gratified smiles in Einnis’s direction, his blue eyes bright in the firelight.  
   
Einnis averted his gaze, hunched his shoulders and ducked his head over the ale bowl and a particularly juicy bone.  
 

\- x -

   
When he at length rose to seek his pallet for the night, leaving behind his two dogs that normally slept with him in the smithy, Eoin rose too. The thrall followed without a word. He didn’t say anything at all till the door had been closed behind them, but then he spoke up at once.  
   
“Thank you. I think ….you… save my life,” he said and reached out to take Einnis’s hand in his. Einnis snatched it away as if burned. He hurriedly took a small step back, all that the cramped space would allow, and turned to the pallet. Without as much as looking at Eoin, and speaking no word, he put aside his cloak and pulled off his boots, trousers and over-tunic with abrupt and jerky movements. Then he rapidly crawled under the covers.  
   
Eoin stood, uncertain.  
   
“Come on, get those damp things off, there’s place here for two, “ Einnis muttered with eyes determinedly averted. “It’ll get cold when the fire dies down, and you’ll need some proper rest after all the excitement you’ve had tonight.  
   
“Ex-cite-ment,” Eoin whispered. “There’s more than one kind…..”  
   
Letting the sentence hang in the air unfinished, he hurriedly complied with Einnis’s order, and soon followed him in under the covers. The pallet was warm and dry, a layer of straw making it comfortable, and pelts and a woolen blanket creating a snug and inviting sleeping space.  
   
There wasn’t enough space for the two of them to share the bed without touching. Shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, they lay motionless next to each other. Tense, with chests so constricted they could barely breathe, their hearts racing, neither was able to close his eyes. They stared up to the roof, still clearly visible in the light from the crumbling fire, but saw nothing. Heard nothing, except the thunder of heartbeats. Felt nothing, except the blood hammering through their bodies and an intense heat where they were touching.  
   
They stayed this way for several minutes until Eoin broke the impasse. With one swift and determined movement he pulled his tunic up, his other hand reaching out to capture Einnis’s in a strong grip. He brought it back over, depositing it on his fully erect cock, and didn’t let go, but pressed it firmly to himself.  
   
Einnis for one futile second tried to pull free, jumping as if he’d touched fire. He was up on his knees in a flash, quivering like a bow drawn to the breaking point, trying in vain to push Eoin away, a strange noise like a growl escaping from between his clenched teeth.  
   
Eoin was up too, batting the other’s crumbling defenses aside and lunging closer to grip Einnis’s face between his own. He leaned in close, so close that he drew Einnis’s tortured breaths right into his own lungs. Their foreheads met. For a moment they remained like that, frozen in time, both of them desperately hard, neither moving, breath and heartbeats on hold, two fates hanging in the balance.  
   
The bow broke.  
   
Einnis moved, as quickly as a striking adder. He grabbed Eoin and turned him over, pulled him up on all fours, and pushed their tunics out of the way. All of a sudden he was breathing again as if he’d run many long miles, frantic and half-mad with lust and rage and desperation, passion welling forth like an unstoppable flood now the dam had burst at last. Instinct was taking over, knowledge born of desire as ancient as the first beings to ever walk the earth.  
   
He spit two times into his hand, put the saliva on himself with strong, frenzied strokes, pulled Eoin back, and entered him with a loud inhuman groan. Eoin responded in kind, moving under Einnis like a wild thing, moaning as he pushed himself backwards to take it all and to meet the other thrust for thrust. Einnis was reaching ahead, grasping Eoin’s shoulders, hanging on blindly as he pushed and strained, rutting with unrelenting force into the willing, yielding body under him. The Tor’s hammer around his neck slipped free and moved with them, back and forth, picking up pace, a silver pendulum gone berserk.  
   
Eoin beat the pallet with his balled fist, strange sounds like sobs escaping his throat. One of his hands moved convulsively to his own cock, encircling it in a strong grip and pulling at it again and again, over and over, racing Einnis for a finishing line that was so close… closer…. Their hips pumped furiously, rhythmically, storm waves crashing against a heaving ship side, and they were there. Screaming out his release, Eoin buried his face in the furs. Einnis followed him with a strangled shout, hands clamping down, his gasping lips crushed against the heated, sweat-damp neck under him.  
   
The sound of their pleasure was muted just enough. It did not reach beyond the narrow and uncaring stone walls surrounding them.  
   
Eventually Einnis pulled out, still shaking from the sheer overwhelming intensity of their coupling, and collapsed next to Eoin. They lay there for a moment, panting, disoriented and limp, neither able to move a muscle. Then all at once they sank together into deep and dreamless sleep, utterly lost to the world and all its worries. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Holmgang** : Formal duel with swords. Depending on arrangements, it either stopped when blood was drawn, or it was fought to the death. 
> 
> **Holmhogg** – the sword’s name is made from combining “holmgang” and “hogg” which means strike/cut/slice. Swords were very important to their Norse owners, and swords with a history worth a tale, or of particularly fine making and with special qualities, often were given names. They were heirlooms, status symbols and male power symbols.
> 
>  **"Bare is the back of the brotherless man / Many hands make light work:** \- These are actual sayings from the Icelandic “Grettir’s Saga”, which is extremely rich in proverbs, and which tell of the life and death of an Icelandic outlaw ca. AD 1,000. The saga was written down in the 13th century. 
> 
> **Blast and the Asgard fortifications** : This myth tells how an (unnamed) builder offered to build an immense fortification around the gods’ home in exchange for the goddess Freya, the sun and the moon, within a set period and without the help of anyone but his horse Svadilfari. The gods agreed, coaxed into the agreement by Loki, but were distressed when they realized the horse was so strong that the builder would actually make it. Then they threatened Loki to find a solution: He shapeshifted into a mare in heat, and tempted Svadilfari away from the builder. The upshot was that the fortification wasn’t finished on time, the builder was killed – and Loki gave birth to a grey foal with eight legs, Odin’s horse Sleipner. 
> 
> **Einstadr** : The Viking era (AD 600-1,000) was a time of rapid population growth in Scandinavia, which contributed to raids and settlements abroad, but which also led to many new farms being established in the home countries. These farms frequently would be given names ending with “stadr” (ie. “place”) and beginning with the name of the farmer who cleared the grounds and built the farm. (Arnstad = Arni’s place, Einstad = Einnis’ place). There are ca 2,500 place-names still ending with –stad in Norway alone, nearly all of them places where new farms were cleared during the Viking era. 
> 
> **Fylgje** means “one who follows”. According to Norse beliefs, a spirit that followed each single person, often in the shape of an animal corresponding to the personality of the man or woman in question. (A bear for a warrior, for instance). Seeing one’s own fylgje was a strong omen of imminent death. 
> 
> **Shape-shifters** : Are not very frequent in Norse beliefs outside of the myths of the gods, but they do exist and it’s often then a change into bear shape. As far as the gods go, many of them shape-shifted. Our old friend Loki changed himself into a falcon more than once, into a salmon, and into a mare (see above). 
> 
> **Norse homicide legalities** ; If someone killed a thrall, there would be fines specified by the laws to be paid to the thrall’s owner, and that would be that. There would be considerable higher fines for the killing of a free-born man, but only if his clan accepted the fines as recompense. Frequently such a killing would lead to a clan blood feud, where the life of the killer was considered forfeit.


	8. Chapter 8

Einnis woke early. At this time of year dawn came late, and it was pitch black in the stone-walled little house. The fire had died, since no-one had banked the embers the previous night. For a moment he lay still, content and relaxed, sensing a warm body butted firmly up against his, and feeling the even breathing of another human being wafting over his own skin.  
   
Then abruptly he sat up, eyes wide and frantic in the darkness.  
   
He crawled out of the blankets and furs in a hurry, fumbling around for the oil-filled stone lamp he kept for those occasions when the fire died. His hands shook as he located flint and fire-striker and struck a spark to light the little lamp. Its soft glow chased the deepest darkness off to hide in the smithy’s corners, but the house was still filled with long murky shadows that moved grotesquely whenever a draft of air made the tiny flame flicker.  
   
For a short while Einnis stood completely frozen, with shoulders hunched, head down, body tense and eyes crunched firmly shut against the tiny light and the vast shadows. Then he made haste to locate his clothes and boots, and got dressed as if his life depended on the speed of it.  
   
Before pushing open the door he turned and looked back over his shoulder at Eoin, who was still sleeping peacefully with a small contented smile on his unguarded face, the perfect image of happy slumber. Einnis’s face softened in turn, then he flung open the door and ducked through it abruptly. The door slammed loudly shut behind him.  
   
He walked briskly over to the mens’ camp, where only one man was awake. The thrall whose turn it was to get the fire going and to boil their morning porridge was going about his business. Ignoring the man completely, Einnis sat down on one of the logs by the fire, grasped a stick from the heap of firewood and poked at the dirt in front of his feet aimlessly. He stared in front of himself and down on the ground with unblinking eyes. One of his dogs came over, pressing itself against his legs with a whimper before lying down next to him, head resting on paws but with ears turned stiffly forward, alert and uneasy.  
   
There was a chill bite to the air that made Einnis shudder. The sky was pressing close to the earth, a heavy cover of low clouds moving in over the landscape and obscuring the distant mountaintops. Morning hid behind the clouds, its weak milky light washing hesitantly over fields and clouds. Nature was heralding mid-winter’s arrival at last.  
   
Einnis sat rooted on the same spot till the camp came alive. Once the morning meal was ready, the men came crawling out of the tents, their movements sluggish. They all looked somewhat the worse for wear, but in better spirits than they’d been in a while.  
   
Eoin also now appeared, walking slowly and carefully from the smithy, eyes downcast. He sat down to eat with a slight grimace.  
   
The other men were boisterous, but neither Einnis nor Eoin said a word, and Einnis turned his back on the thrall and sent no single glance in his direction.  
   
The ground had frozen overnight, and was covered in patches with a light frosting of snow. Thin layers of brittle ice covered all the mud-holes where water seepage had collected – the ice fractured into sharp white shards when stepped on. They had a cold day’s work ahead, but the frost might at least make it less of a muddy one. Einnis gave the orders for the day, and the men went to it without objections, but also without much enthusiasm.  
   
He once more looked around for his other dog, Kvikk. It usually was the most faithful of companions and not in the habit of taking off on its own. But now it didn’t come when he whistled, and there was no trace of it. None of the men knew where it had gotten to. No-one had thought to look out for Einnis’s two dogs since he otherwise kept them near his house.  
   
Einnis looked towards the woods for a moment, mindful of his remaining dog’s nervous and uneasy behavior, but then turned back to the fields and went to work helping to build a new portion of a fence.  
   
By now there were a few large snow flakes floating in the air, each one hovering tentatively as if it didn’t want to come down to earth. It was as if winter was holding back one last little moment, hesitating to descend in full force on the world, doling itself out miserly - one perfect and glimmering flake at the time.   
   
They worked steadily and without incident through to the midday meal. When Kvikk still hadn’t returned by then, Einnis took his bow and arrows and one of the solid spears they’d brought for protection, asked Svein to do the same, and whistled.  
   
“Snögg, come here, boy!”  
   
They walked a way in among the trees, alert to every woodland noise, looking carefully for signs, and not calling out or whistling anymore. Snögg stayed some few steps ahead of them, its body low to the ground as if stalking prey, leading them along and seemingly knowing where to go. Before long the dog raised its hackles, a low growl emerging from its throat and turning into a whine. Einnis called it to heel and stopped, standing completely still, letting nature’s silence settle over the three of them. There was no sound. Signalling to Svein to stay where he was, he himself carefully walked on again. A few more steps took him over the edge of a small hillock to the other side, and there he found Kvikk.  
   
The dog was lying on its back, its belly mauled and torn, legs akimbo, the left side of its head sliced open and marked by long gashes from big parallel claws. The ground around the prone shape was dark with blood.  
   
Einnis’s jaws clenched. He looked around once more, but there was no indication now that the bear remained close by. Snögg came up and sniffed the torn remains, whimpering miserably. Kvikk had been a constant companion during several years on the farm. Einnis patted the dog’s head, planted his spear in the ground, and crouched down to remove Kvikk’s torn collar. He sat there for a moment in silence. Then he called for Svein in a low voice, and together they dragged the carcass a short distance to a rocky part of the hillock, where they covered it with loose rocks and gravel.  
   
Once more they stood still, listening. Far off they could hear a raven croaking hoarsely, but that was all. The woods were uncommonly silent. The only near-by sound was the low burbling of a brook a little way off among the trees.  
   
“It’s quiet,” Svein whispered. “Perhaps it’s only due to the snow that’s about to fall, and heavily too, if the old signs are to be believed.”  
   
“Yes,” Einnis murmured back, looking around carefully. “But there can also be other reasons. A killer bear at this time of year is not normal, there must be something wrong with it, and it will be all the more dangerous if all wildlife has fled before it.”  
   
He shook his head with a troubled expression, and called softly for Snögg. The two men held their spears firmly at the ready as they hastily retreated back to camp the way they’d come. They scanned the woods while they walked, but saw neither hide nor hair of the bear that had to be out there somewhere.  
   
Back at camp Einnis sent Svein to rejoin the men, but himself stopped by the horse’s enclosure and lean-to.  
   
“I’ll look around here briefly for possible tracks,” he said. “You go on join the others, but keep quiet till I talk to them myself.”  
   
Svein sent him a look, but acquiesced and left for the fields.  
   
Einnis walked a turn around the enclosure, carefully surveying the ground where it wasn’t already covered in snow, but nothing but old hoof prints and boot marks could be discerned.  
   
Snow started falling in earnest now. Soon every track would be covered and there would be nothing to see. He looked up pensively, considering, and saw Eoin approaching. For a split second Einnis looked behind himself as if contemplating a new visit to the woods, then he squared his shoulders and stood his ground, silently glowering.  
   
The thrall walked right up to him and sat down on a log by the lean-to, saying no word in greeting. He wasn’t wearing his cap, and white snowflakes dusted his dark hair, shorn very close to the head to signal his status as a freeman turned thrall. He petted the head of Snögg, who came to stand next to him. Then he sat still, looking down on his own red and calloused hands.  
   
“Did you find your dog?”  
   
Einnis nodded and cleared his throat. “It is dead. There’s a bear in the woods.”  
   
Eoin looked up, but he didn’t seem surprised. “I feared that. Now the men will be even more…. not happy… with me.”  
   
“Not with you, no. They wouldn’t dare. I’ve set them straight.”  
   
Eoin sent him a crooked smile, a tiny glint of teeth, and shook his head.  
   
“There are ways… small ways… not seen. Little things….” He shrugged. “Yes, many ways. But I will take it if I must, to be with... you.”  
   
Einnis ground his teeth, jerked away and abruptly moved to leave, like a skittish horse spooked past its startling point. Eoin jumped up from his seat and planted himself determinedly in his path. When Einnis tried to push past him he stood his ground firmly, but not belligerently. They were nearly chest to chest, Einnis making an effort to stare Eoin down, his eyes narrowing to angry slits during the sudden tense stand-off. He grabbed Eoin’s shoulders, shoving at him and attempting to force him aside, and got right up in the thrall’s face when he held his own and didn’t yield.  
   
Though they now stood face to face like two stags in mating season, the situation otherwise was not unlike their night before, as both of them were keenly aware. Even as he struggled to stand firm under Einnis’s onslaught, a small secretive smile flickered over Eoin’s face and made his eyes light up.  
   
Einnis’s fist shot out without warning and made resounding impact with the thrall’s mouth and jaw. Eoin reeled to the side, tumbling to his knees, and cradling his face as he went down hard.  
   
Einnis stood over him for a moment with a furious glare, fists clenched. Then his shoulders slumped. Rage left his body as quickly as it had emerged. He took a few stumbling steps backwards and stood wordlessly watching the other, who groaned and tried to sit up while protecting his jaw. Some drops of blood had appeared at the corner of his mouth.  
   
“You should use a little snow to ease the pain and the swelling,” Einnis said, his voice bleak and studiedly devoid of emotion. “The way things are going here, your whole face will soon be one big bruise. Such is a thrall’s life.”  
   
Eoin ignored this jibe and met Einnis’s eyes. “What is it…. what do you want from me, Einnis Elmarson?” he asked.  
   
Einnis swallowed, and looked to the side. He sighed, defeated. “Last night…. happened once. Once in a lifetime. Is that clear?”  
   
Eoin got slowly to his feet, brushing snow off himself much as he seemed to have brushed off Einnis’s strangely callous words. He touched his tender face with a grimace, his tongue sneaking out to lick away blood from his lips, and nodded in confirmation.  
   
“Yes, it is so. One time in life. So good… is rare. And no-one has to know, no-one but…. we,” he said in a low voice, reassuringly. He bent down to scoop up some snow, cramming it in his palm before carefully pressing it against his jaw.  
   
Einnis winced. “I am not ragr!” he burst out with heated emphasis.  
   
“I am not ragr, either,” Eoin responded evenly. Not knowing what the word meant, he felt the need to clarify: “I am just like you.”  
   
Einnis glared at him suspiciously, but was undone by those wide-open, honest blue eyes. They held determination, but not the slightest hint of guile or spite. The thrall’s whole posture spoke of sincerity.  
   
“Huh! Self-willed thralls, by Thor!” he snorted as if in response to some inner voice, no ire or enmity in his voice. But he gave no explanation when Eoin looked at him questioningly.  
   
The two of them looked solemn and pensive as they walked together back to the camp, neither of them speaking another word.  
   
They had just struck a deeply personal bargain, but their understanding of its terms was as different as night and day.  
   
The snow fell faster now by the minute, a flurry of large downy flakes that settled on their cloaks and in their hair, and made them look strangely alike. The falling snow blurred all distinguishing features.  
   
Shortly after they’d walked by their tracks on the snowy ground were filled in and so erased – as if they’d never been there at all.  
 

\- x -

   
During the brief space of an hour or so after Einnis and Svein returned to camp, the world had changed. A deep, eerie quiet descended. Sky and fields and woods merged into one bleak vision. The cold white blanket covered everything, fences, tents, rocks and logs. And it kept snowing.  
   
They all knew it for a sign. Nature herself was telling them that it was time to pack up, strike camp, and return home to the farm.  
   
Einnis called the men together.  
   
“Winter is here,” he stated flatly. “This snow will continue, by all the signs, and will be too deep for us to manage. You have all worked well and hard, and we have come further than I had hoped. Now the work must stop. We will do no more this side of drinking yule and of the midwinter blot.”  
   
The men looked at each other, cold and huddled in their snow-covered cloaks and hats, and grinned.  
   
“We still have to fell most of the trees that have been marked, and to bring the timber down here from the woods, but that can wait. There is a killer bear in the woods, and we do not have the weapons or the number of dogs that we need to hunt it safely.”  
   
An uneasy mutter of voices followed this statement, which confirmed their worries and doubts. A killer bear at this time of year clearly had to be an omen, a portent of misfortune or worse.  
   
“We will pack up and leave at once, before the snow becomes too deep for the horses. It will be tough going, and we won’t be home till late, but if the gods grant it we’ll all sleep at the farm tonight.”  
   
The men did not need further prodding to start collecting their gear and they took down the tents hurriedly and efficiently, packing most on one of the sleighs they’d used to haul rocks.  
   
“Good thing we’re leaving. If that bear’s a warning that’s telling us to go, the gods will be pleased with our speed. They won’t bother us again,” one of the men said as they worked.  
   
“Be careful, do not speak out of turn,” Svein admonished him. “Remember the wisdom of the old one. ´Praise day at even, a wife when dead, ice when 'tis crossed, and ale when 'tis drunk!´ I don’t think we should say more about this till we have arrived safely home, and even then with caution!”  
   
“Yes,” a third one of the free-men agreed, as he shook snow out of the wet and heavy tent canvas. He glanced uneasily towards the copse of trees, almost completely obscured from view now in the snow-heavy dusk. “The woods have ears, so the saying goes, and not all of them are kind. Better say no more.”  
   
Einnis heard all this but didn’t speak up. The men around him nevertheless took his noncommittal grunt to signal agreement with the last speaker, and so their talk turned to other matters. They discussed what gear and equipment they’d bring back home, and what should be left behind to be used come spring. The latter they carried over to the smithy and stored it safely behind its solid walls.  
   
While they made ready to leave, snow kept falling steadily. There was no sign of a let-up. Dusk had long since arrived, a grey un-light filtered through heavy clouds. Everything on the ground had disappeared under heavy layers of white that obscured the landscape’s features, subdued every hard edge and angle, and muffled every sound. The whole world seemed untouched, made new and uninviting. This one day had made all the difference.  
 

\- x -

   
When they arrived home at the farm they were bone-weary and worn out. For long distances they’d had to sit off and lead the horses through the snow, and though a number of the men had snow-shoes and walked in front of the others to forge a path, it had been slow going and a long trek to get home.  
   
The horses stood in the courtyard, tired heads down, snow caked in their manes and tails. Einnis sent his men off to seek their usual sleeping benches  and to get a well-deserved good night’s rest, and ordered the home thralls up instead to unload the sleigh and to take care of the horses. He himself went into the hall.  
   
Sigrid had long since sought her bed, but Ketil was up late, lingering on the bench by the high seat over a bowl of ale. One of the serving women was there too, keeping him very close company on the bench. Her cheeks were red and she looked disheveled and tipsy, but she wasn’t so drunk she didn’t have the wits to adjust her dress and get up to leave once Einnis came into the hall.  
   
He ignored her as she hurried past him on slightly unsteady feet. The smell of ale in her wake was unmistakable.  
   
Ketil looked disgruntled at seeing her go, but quickly forgot about that once he heard Einnis’s news and the reason for their return to the farm.  
   
 “A killer bear? It will be good sport, chasing it down! Ah, I’ve missed the thrill of a proper hunt!”  
   
Next morning he set off on ski with a number of his men and a pack of eager hunting dogs. The men were all armed with spears, but otherwise traveled light, their purpose a quick kill.  
   
Most of the farm’s people came out to see them leave, and to wish them good speed and a safe return. The courtyard filled with an excited buzz. Whispers about the gods’ displeasure had reached every ear, and in the cold dark season such fears found fertile ground in many a human heart.  
 

\- x -

   
Ketil and his men returned three days later, dragging the bear’s carcass on a light sleigh behind them. There had been disappointingly little sport in the hunting of it; the bear was old and had a damaged jaw that would have made it all but impossible for it to feed. The animal was weak and emaciated and could barely get to its feet when they tracked it down in the woods. Its swift death clearly came as a release from long woes. And though it would make a decent enough pelt for a floor or sleeping bench, it was obvious to all that such a sickly animal could not have been a messenger from the powers.  
   
The talk of portents died down at once. People instead turned their thoughts to happier things and prepared to drink yule, with the ceremonial bright lights, good and plentiful food, the strong ale – and the midwinter blot.  
   
The outfarm in the meantime lay cold and empty, shrouded in winter’s silence, waiting in frozen sleep for the men who would return to awaken it and to once more bring life and change to its fields and woods. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fire striker** : This little steel implement was part of mens’ and womens’ gear. It produced sparks to light a fire with when struck against a piece of flint.
> 
>  **Snögg and Kvikk** : The dogs’ names mean Rapid and Quick, and as far as I know there is no mythological connection. 
> 
> **“Praise Day at Even… etc”** comes from what is possibly the most well-known of Norse poems, Havamal, which contains many sayings and rather pragmatic living advice handed to humans by the main god, Odin. 
> 
> **“The woods have ears”** is another one of the Grettir Saga’s proverbs. 
> 
> **Drink yule** : At midwinter the Norse celebrated winter solstice and also held a major blot to ensure a good upcoming year. This was called “drinking yule” and all in all lasted 13 days.


	9. Chapter 9

Two days before it was time to start drinking yule, an unexpected but very welcome visitor arrived at the farm. Einnis’s companion and friend from the summer’s raiding in Ireland, Torgeirr Haraldson, came riding accompanied by his father’s brother Olaf Haka and several of their men.  
   
“Do not be so surprised, Einnis,” he said and laughed when his friend hastened to greet them. “We did talk about visiting with each other, remember? Time flies. And anyway, this is perfect - imagine all the silver I’ll save, not having to pay for all my own ale and Olaf’s all through yule!”  
   
As always, good cheer followed wherever Torgeirr went.  
   
Torgeirr soon enough belied his own jest about saving his riches, as he presented his hosts with costly gifts. To Sigrid he gave a heavy gold finger-ring with a purple stone.  
   
“It has been well earned, Sigrid Elmarsdottir,” he told her sincerely. “It’s to thank you, mistress, for making it possible for me to get to know Einnis. He proved a true friend to me in Ireland, and if not for your competent rule of the farm I know he could not have left home to travel the West with us this year.”   
   
Sigrid was visibly pleased both by the ring and his words, and during the following week’s celebrations she would sit up with the men and talk over the ale bowls till late in the evening. Otherwise she had taken to seeking her boxed-in sleeping bench early.  
   
Their talk turned often to the men’s adventures in the East and the West, and Ketil once more proved a good and spirited story-teller, his salty sagas egging Torgeirr on to laughingly provide equally fantastic tales from Ireland.  
   
Turning serious, Torgeirr and Olaf also brought troubling news of the unrest and skirmishes that continued in the kingdoms as the various minor kings vied for land and power. Tales of new battles along the coast had reached Kaupang several times during Torgeirr’s prolonged stay there, and he knew of a goodly number of free men and chieftains who had gone into their own king’s service. Some of the men Einnis would know too, he said, as they had been among the crew on the Raven’s Wing. He mentioned their names, and Einnis nodded, looking both interested and concerned.  
   
“It seems that troubled times cannot be avoided, since every king wants more power for himself. Anyone may find a battle brewing on their own doorstep,” Torgeirr said. “Our king is a strong and clever leader, but he’s as power-hungry as they come. Now rumor has it he has sworn to make himself overlord of every kingdom in the east and west, and won’t rest or be content till he succeeds. There’s a woman behind his efforts, wouldn’t you know? There’s no length even the strongest man won’t go to when love is involved,” he grinned even as he shook his head. “At least it gives many a warrior the opportunity to win fame and fortune, the gods willing.”  
   
Despite the looming prospects of danger and war, however, the midwinter celebrations were first on everyone’s mind. In this cold, dark and barren time of year drinking yule provided joy and hope. Good food and better ale filled the tables for all to enjoy, and both the hall and the lesser houses blazed with light from torches, hearths and lamps.  
 

\- x - 

   
As many among the farm’s free men and women as could possibly be spared from their duties followed Ketil, Einnis, Sigrid and their guests when they rode down the valley to join in the Midwinter Blot festival. Their ride was longer than it needed have been - they didn’t cross the frozen lake in the valley, but rode around it. Elmar’s children had every reason to remember how treacherous the ice could still be this early in winter.  
   
Their local hov stood loftily on a hillock next to the largest manor in the district, and was visible from far away. The chieftain at the manor was responsible for maintaining the sacred place and arranging the large blot meals, and he also served as the hov’s foremost godi.  
   
People from all the surrounding farms brought their own food and sacrificial animals for slaughter, and all the ale and mead they planned to drink. Before the rites at the hov started there was a large press of people at the manor, visitors from far and wide and from every farm in the district. Groups of over-excited children ran around and got under the feet of the grown-ups, hardly noiseless in their plays and games. Frightened sheep, horses and pigs being readied as sacrifice to the gods added to the already deafening din.  
   
At the appointed time everyone went in a long procession from the manor up to the hov on the hill. The godi walked in front with two men blowing on lurs behind him, as well as a group of women rhythmically shaking large and skillfully wrought rattles. Next rode or walked the valley’s most important men and women in all their winter finery; long red and blue cloaks made from expensive foreign cloth and decorated with silk and woven ribbons. Many of the men held ceremonial spears upright, and both men and women as well as their horses’ harnesses were richly adorned with silver or gold. The first part of the long procession sparkled and shone like the stars in the sky whenever the pale winter sunlight was reflected in spear points, helmets and jewelry. It was a colorful and awe-inspiring sight for all the people who followed behind on foot.  
   
The ceremony in the hov itself was solemn and secretive. Only the most important members of each clan were able to actually enter the inner sanctum. Everyone else gathered around on the outside of the wooden building, waiting to be told that the rites had been properly concluded so that the feasting could begin in earnest. The day was very cold. Breaths looked like puffs of white smoke, and there was much stamping of feet and flapping of arms as people tried to keep warm while the blot progressed inside.  
   
Einnis wore his blue cloak into the hov, having first left the ceremonial spear and his sword Holmhogg outside. He stood next to his siblings during the rites. The characteristic smells in the hov’s dim interior immediately brought the gods’ presence to his mind, the way they’d done since he was a boy - intense odors of spice-laced smoke, damp earth and most of all the strong sweetish tang of sacrificial blood, both old and fresh.  
   
A gydje now stepped forth before those assembled. She shook her ceremonial rattle to call the gods’ attention, and then stuck the sharp spiked end of two large gilded tallow-lamps firmly into the earthen floor. She lighted the lamps with a torch, and stepped back.  
   
The lamp flames lit up the large carved figures of Odin, Thor and Frey where they stood on high between richly carved upright pillars in the hov’s innermost part. Light and shadows danced over the gods and all at once seemed to bring them to life. They were darkened with many layers of dried blood, given in sacrifice over the years, and adorned with sacred gold for the occasion. Odin the one-eyed in the middle looked powerful and sinister, Thor as ever held his big hammer Mjolnir in front of himself as a sign of his might, and the shape of Frey did not leave any doubts about his fertility, the way his magnificently large and erect member was on proud display.  
   
The godi chanted the incantations to the gods, and sprinkled them and their altars liberally with the still-warm sacrificial animal blood, carried into the hof in two richly adorned silver bowls. Once the larger bowl had been emptied, he knelt down over it, muttering imprecations and prayers while searching for the gods’ will and omens in the patterns created by the blood.   
   
Everyone bent their heads in respect and awe of the gods and their powers. Eventually the godi rose to his feet again and intoned the final sacred chants directly in front of the three gods, every word rich with ancient and powerful magics.  
   
Loud shouts of praise rose from the crowd of people once the godi stepped out of the hov, lifting a smaller blot bowl high before sprinkling a little sacrificial blood to every corner of the world. He ended by revealing the gods’ omens with a loud voice. In the blood he had seen no portents of great ills to befall their valley in the year to come, he said. The people cheered in gratitude and relief.  
   
The gods had been properly honored and had received their due; now they had no cause to turn against the people of the valley.  
   
The whole raucous procession returned back to the manor and entered the large wooden blot-hall, where fires blazed on the long open hearth and boiled sacrificial meat from the cooking pits was being carried through the doors in vats so big that the thralls nearly crumbled under the weight. The hall was filled to the rafters with revelers as the godi solemnly dedicated all the drinking goblets and the meat to Odin. The goblets and drinking horns, filled to the brim, were thereafter passed over the blazing hearth fire and rapidly distributed among the guests. Everyone rose to formally make Odin's toast, asking for victory and power to their king, and then came the most important toast of all. They all loudly hailed Frey and drank to árs ok friðar – a good year and peace.  
   
As the blot feast now progressed, people threw themselves with abandon at the rich food and drink, and many a loud additional toast was made while ale and mead flowed throughout the evening. Men emptied Brage-goblets, swearing to do one brave feat or another, and others drank in remembrance of recently departed kin.  
   
Einnis kept unusually quiet, even for him, and didn’t drink overmuch. Early on, while they were still in a state to notice such things, his men close by thought that he seemed preoccupied and distant. They found it reasonable that he drank no Brage-goblet. After all, he’d already taken on more than one man’s work with the farm he was building. Ketil Efni Elmarson on the other hand did rise to toast Brage later in the evening, but by then his voice was slurred, and there were loud screams and bellows of laughter from a group of near-by men. Ketil’s words were lost in the din, and later he kept his vow to himself.  
   
The celebrations lasted far into the night, according to custom and tradition, and the gods had no reason to be displeased with the people’s fervour and their dedication to the blot festival.

\- x - 

After the troubles he experienced at the out-farm, Eoin had tried to not be conspicuous in any way about praying or practicing his religion. Nevertheless, he felt a deep need to celebrate the joyous birth of the son of God and give thanks on that holy night.

He wanted a quiet and private place for his lonely Christ mass. The stables seemed to him perfect for the occasion. 

There were only a very few horses now that so many people had ridden to the blot. That meant there was space enough, and also very little risk of interference from other men. The remaining horses still provided the long, low building with pleasant and comforting warmth. The calm low sounds as the horses moved in their stalls created in Eoin a sense of companionship with other living, breathing beings. The Lord Christ himself had been born in a stable, since there had been nowhere else for his blessed virgin mother to turn to. What better place then to celebrate his birth?

Eoin put his little stone lamp on the floor, and kneeled down. He stared into the flame for a while in silence, letting the peace of the holy night settle in his heart, and then he closed his eyes. In a clear voice he sang several of the hymns he had learned in praise of the Lord. In his imagination he joined his own humble voice to the strong, joyful chorus that would have lifted these same hymns to Heaven back in his monastery’s little church, and to the chorus of happy voices rejoicing all around Ireland and everywhere else where this mass was even now being celebrated.

Christ had spoken of love and peace and forgiveness, something Eoin’s life had been woefully short on before he hobbled into the monastery and miraculously was allowed to remain. There he had been offered an acceptance of himself and his abilities that he’d never experienced at home, though the monastery rules were strict and demanding, and the days long enough to many a time make him weary both in body and mind. But more importantly than anything else – he’d found moments of quiet grace and serenity there that his dreamer’s soul had been yearning for just as much as a starved man longs for nourishment, though he hadn’t been fully aware of it. 

The lovely hymns, the contemplation, the pretty lights and bells and Latin prayers, the enchanting images of grave saints and of the Lord’s sorrowful mother, the illuminated scriptures resplendent with gold and bright colors, the sweet smell of incense, the monastery’s lush herb garden…. All of it opened up for him a new world, a world that wasn’t just harsh and ugly and filled with pain and scorn, a wondrous world where beauty and kindness, joy and hope, gentleness and mercy existed and were treasured and encouraged, and where he himself wasn’t just considered a useless good-for-nothing. 

Taking the initial vows had been no hardship at all. It had been a means for him to forsake his previous sad existence and to give something valuable back to the monastery which had already given him so much.  

As a child he had learned how to fight and to deceive in order to merely survive. But in the monastery he had been taught that there was a purpose with his life, and thereby had regained trust in himself. The teachings said that the Lord would not abandon him or completely withhold joy from his life if he kept his soul open and filled with confidence. If he only kept devotion and hope alive in his heart, and fought to preserve and defend what was good and right, all would be made clear in time. Not even a sparrow would fall to earth without God’s knowing of it, so the monks had assured him. Though fate might take difficult or unexpected turns to test his faith and resolve, whatever happened in his life was meant to be so. 

Einnis Elmarson came to his mind, as he so often did. His face, the way it looked when he was relaxed and happy. The deep timbre of his voice. The desperate thrill of that strong body moving in time with Eoin’s own. The perfect ecstasy they experienced that one night alone together. An undeniable and intense attraction. Surely this was God’s will and was meant to be. Yes, that which lifted his spirit, gave him joy and filled his life with such unlooked-for loveliness had to be a gift that should not be feared or denied, but be accepted with humility and gratitude. 

Eoin solemnly made the sign of the cross over his heart, and once more bent his head in heartfelt gratitude on this holy night, murmuring first the Pater Noster and then many repeated Ave Marias into the radiance of the little lamp. 

He knelt for a long time there in the small circle of softly flickering light. Midwinter murk loomed all around, but on this night and in this place the darkness did not hold sway. There were no dangers and no terrors, only a blessed tranquility and peace of mind.

\- x - 

Shortly after they all had arrived safely back home from the blot, it was revealed why Torgeirr had wanted Olaf Haka to travel north with him. The two guests asked to have private words with Ketil and Einnis. Once they all were sitting together and out of anyone’s earshot, Olaf spoke up and asked for Sigrid’s hand in marriage on Torgeirr’s behalf. According to custom he spent some considerable time detailing Torgeirr’s clan connections, his talents and achievements, and the extent of his riches. He also outlined how much Torgeirr proposed to contribute as Sigrid’s bride price and mundr.

Ketil and Einnis looked with favor on this proposal, and said as much. Sigrid could hardly expect a wealthier husband, and Torgeirr’s clan was well-respected. Such a brother-in-law would benefit the brothers. However, they didn’t want to shake hands on an agreement before Sigrid herself had had her say. 

The next day therefore, the two of them spoke to their sister about it, and repeated all that had been discussed the evening before. Einnis added for his own part that Torgeirr was a good friend, who had proven a strong fighter, steadfast and courageous, honest, generous and cheerful during the raiding in Ireland. The brothers advised Sigrid to accept the offered marriage.

Sigrid heard them out in silence, and smiled a little at Einnis’s many words of praise.

“Is there then nothing unfavorable at all to say about Torgeirr and his ways?” she queried mildly.

Einnis pondered this with the gravity her question deserved. “I did think he was far too rash sometimes, rushing forth and taking action without thinking much of the consequences” he said at last. “And for all his good cheer, a few times he lost himself in his own thoughts for a long time, and then he would speak but little even if spoken to. And he snores!”

Sigrid laughed. ”A veritable fiend, this man you want me to marry!” 

“I would like few things better than seeing him as my brother-in-law. I wouldn’t say this if I thought there would be unhappiness for you at his side,” Einnis said earnestly. “But the decision is yours. Neither Ketil nor I would force you into a marriage that is not to your liking.”

Sigrid grew serious in her turn, and squeezed Einnis’s hand a moment. “I like Torgeirr well enough, more so for your praise of him, Einnis.”

She looked up at Ketil. “If you reach an agreement that makes you content, you may tell Torgeirr on my behalf and yours that you accept his proposal.” 

She said no more, but Einnis noticed a light blush rising in her cheeks as she modestly lowered her eyes.

That evening, the men talked long over the mead horns, and the terms of the betrothal were worked out to their mutual satisfaction. Eventually Einnis had only one more topic left that he wanted to broach.

“Torgeirr, I remember you told me in Ireland that you have a fridla living on the farm with you,” Einnis said. “What do you intend to do with her, once Sigrid moves in there?”

“Oh, that one,” Torgeirr shook his head even as he grinned. 

“She was gone when I returned home at last. Left with one of the freemen. Got tired of waiting for me to return, I think. Women! It is too often true what the old one says; their hearts were shaped on a whirling wheel.” He laughed. “But however that is, I bought myself an ambatt in Kaupang, and I won’t hide from you that she lives on my farm now. She’s an Irish woman.....” 

He paused, shrugged and looked at Einnis.  “You’ve seen her yourself. One of the women captives from the Raven’s Wing – the pale one who had thick reddish hair? I bought her at the thrall marked not long after you and Ketil left Kaupang. “

He grew serious. “I see how you have every right to think I would not honor your sister much, were I to move her into a farm where my ambatt also lives. I promise to send this woman off somewhere when I marry.”

With that, the two brothers shook hands with Torgeirr and Olaf on the agreement concerning the betrothal between Torgeirr Haraldsson and Sigrid Elmarsdottir. The wedding would take place in the spring, less than four months away. Torgeirr pointed out that both he and Sigrid were grown people who would take quickly to married life, and who would wish for children, so that there was no need to tarry overlong. Sigrid had no objections to this. 

Before everyone retired to their beds, Einnis had the opportunity for a few words in private with Sigrid. She leaned her head on her brother’s shoulder for a moment.  
   
”Oh, Einnis. Einnis Eldhug, I think I shall miss you most of all. We have made it through many sorrows and difficult times together. You have been a good brother to me.”  She smiled at him warmly. ”Please remember that I am not moving to Utgard and the ends of the world! You must come often to visit me and Torgeirr. I count on that.”  
   
Einnis looked at her. “Are you truly happy with this marriage, sister? You have been the mistress of our farm so long, have worked hard to maintain and improve it – to leave it behind now for good may prove hard.”  
   
Sigrid nodded. “Such is every woman’s lot. It will be no different for Arna Mjodsdottir the day she rides north with you. True, it will feel strange when I leave this place with Torgeirr – finally a married woman, who belongs elsewhere. But this agreement is after my own will, and it pleases me, never fear. I will bring along all my belongings and several of my women - there will be much to remind me of my life here. And I will be mistress in my own right, not just waiting for Ketil to bring home some wife or other to take over all the keys from me and to order me about.”  
   
Einnis was distracted despite himself.  
   
“Has Ketil said more about his marrying to you? Thor knows he’s been visiting frequently with many a farm in the valley and beyond, but I have not heard that he has found any one woman he intends to marry, if her kinsmen prove agreeable.”  
   
Sigrid shook her head. “No, he has not taken me into his confidence. I know no more than you.”  
   
“He did tell me he was returning home to settle down with a wife,” Einnis mused. “The clan needs heirs, and the farm does need a proper mistress after you leave.”  
   
“Well, for all his eager searching here on the farm he won’t find her among my serving women,” Sigrid said tartly. “Maybe, if he spent less time and efforts chasing them, and more on courting a proper and fitting wife, he could celebrate his marriage this year like the both of us.”   
   
“You have a point there,” Einnis conceded.  
   
“At least he has remembered his pride and dignity enough to not start bedding the thrall women,” Sigrid sighed.  
   
Einnis found no response to that. Shortly thereafter they said good-night and retreated to their beds.  
 

\- x - 

Torgeirr and Olaf now took their leave and rode homewards after many warm and friendly words of goodbye. Einnis all of a sudden took it into his head that he would ride with them as far as Mjod’s farm, and would visit there some few days with Arna and her father before he had to return to the woods by the out-farm to start the tree-felling.

The future brothers-in-law felt at ease together on the ride south, speaking freely of many things such as their plans for the year, Einnis’s new farm and both the weddings. Einnis also returned to the matter of Torgeirr’s Irish ambatt, and suggested a solution that, among other things, would move her off Torgeirr’s farm without him having to sell her.

“For I see that you do not like the thought of sending her off without knowing where fate will take her next, or what befalls her after,” he said.

Torgeirr was pleased with this. “There are signs she may be with child,” he admitted. “Myrunn’s a good woman, and I wish her no harm.”  

Soon thereafter Einnis and his men turned off the southwards trail to ride to Mjod’s farm, while Torgeirr and Olaf continued on their way. 

Einnis’s visit with his wife-to-be and her father went well in every way. Arna was happy to see him and showed him as much in speech and affectionate caresses, Mjod was interested in all there was to tell about the progress made on rebuilding the out-farm, and in this manner Einnis spent some uneventful and restful days in their company. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Olaf Haka** : Haka means “the chin”. One may therefore assume that Olaf’s chin was a rather prominent feature. 
> 
> **Petty Kingdoms** Before the unification of Norway in 872, as well as during a later period of fragmentation, Norway was divided into numerous small kingdoms of varying size and with shifting borders and alliances.
> 
>  **Godi, hov and gydje** : A godi was the “high priest” who led the religious ceremonies at the sacred building, the hov. This priestly duty would belong to one of the most powerful (ie. rich and titled) men in the district. (An equivalent “high priestess” was called a gydje) 
> 
> **Lur** : A musical instrument, a straight, end-blown wooden tube without finger holes, around three feet long. 
> 
> **Odin** : The war-like king of the gods in Norse mythology. He only has one eye, having given the other in exchange for the right to drink his fill from the well of wisdom. 
> 
> **Frey** : the Norse God of fertility (and brother of Freya). The explicitly phallic nature of the Norse Frey statues has been thoroughly documented through archeaological finds. 
> 
> **Brage** : The Norse god of poetry. A “Brage Toast” was a promise to do a specific great and difficult deed, and was spoken out loud in public company. 
> 
> **Fridla** : Mistress, as in common-law or “additional” wife 
> 
> **Ambatt** : Thrall woman who’ve been bought as, or otherwise has become, her owner’s steady mistress
> 
>  **“..their hearts were shaped on a whirling wheel”** – another word of “wisdom”, about women this time, from Havamal. 
> 
> **The name Myrunn** : There are several examples of phonetic-based “Norsification” of foreign names in the Icelandic sagas, including the change of Irish “muir” to Norse “myr”.
> 
>  **Public Blot** : For the blot feast and the ceremony in the hov, I have used the description in Snorri’s “King Hakon the Good’s Saga” (which was written down by a Christian several hundred years after the last blot took place, and so must be considered with due scepticism). For the procession I have used an image passed down from AD 834 as inspiration, namely the religious procession on a woven tapestry from the Oseberg find, the magnificent ship mound burial of two women, with an enormous wealth of grave goods.


	10. Chapter 10

Einnis and his two men rode homewards through a white landscape where winter held firm sway. The heavy snowfalls before yule had not continued, but the weather had since been very cold, and all the tracks and paths through the valleys were slippery with ice where the snow had been packed together by many feet. Their horses had ice spurs in their hooves though, so the three of them rode at ease and at a good pace.  
   
Einnis’s two companions had served several years at the farm and knew each other well. They talked and joked between themselves contentedly, and Einnis was left to his own thoughts as he rode silently in front.  
   
They were approaching home. Although dusk was turning into an early winter night, Einnis knew every pathway this close to the farm, and they kept going. He would rather travel on, late though it be, than have to ask for a bed and a guest’s welcome at a farm in the valley this close to his own home. It was a clear night, too, and because of the snow there was just enough light to see by.  
   
“Look there,” one of the men said, pointing to the east. “Look how very bright the moon is before she rises over the hilltop! It is almost as if Sun has decided to return to us!”  
   
“I hope it’s not so, for she wouldn’t escape Skoll then,” the other responded nervously.  
   
Whether or not the two wolves were chasing Sun and Moon persistently enough to make them change their course, the bright light radiating from behind the hilltop was a beautiful, strange and eerie sight. Suddenly Einnis was filled with cold foreboding.  
   
“That’s not the sun, nor the moon either - and the light is too unsteady. Look, how it shifts about. Those are flames! Something is burning, and not just some little cot or outhouse from the look if it!”  
   
Unease gripped them. The flames were too far to the east to have anything to do with their own home, and it wasn’t unheard of that a farmhouse by mischance would go up in flames in the cold season, when there were fires on every hearth, and lamps or torches were needed so that men and women had light to do their chores by. But in these times of unrest and war there might be other reasons for farms going up in flames.  
   
They urged their horses on as quickly as they could in the gloom, not speaking now, worry driving them on.   
   
Suddenly Einnis reined in his horse and lifted his hand as a signal to his two followers.  
   
“Halt! I hear something – someone’s coming!”  
   
A horse was approaching down the track towards them, from the sound of it galloping at breakneck pace on the treacherous ground. Soon it came round the bend, and the rider spotted Einnis and his companions waiting in his path. He reined his horse in sharply, staring at them in the darkness.  
   
“Who rides in the night?” he called out to them.  
   
Einnis responded by loudly stating his name and also naming their farm. “We would know who you are, and what reason there is for your urgency?” he called back. His hand didn’t leave his sword.  
   
The horse now trotted forward till they could see each other. Einnis recognized the youngest son from one of the farms to the east of his own.  
   
“Einnis Elmarson! I’m glad to see you! I’m spreading the word that the valley’s under attack – two farms have already been burned down! Warriors came out of the blue, heavily armed. We don’t know for sure who they are, but some mere band of outlaws they’re not – they are too many and too well organized. We think it may be the king of Oppland and his men striking back!”  
   
Einnis looked homewards. There were miles of woods and fields yet to pass before they would reach the farm.  
   
“Thank you, Trond,” he said. “Ride on, ride on, warn as many as you can down the valley! On our way home we will rouse any farms that haven’t already heard these ill tidings.”  
   
With that they rode off in opposite directions, Einnis and his men pushing on in desperate haste, much like Loki once hurtled towards Asgard with Tjatse on his tail in hot pursuit.  
 

\- x - 

   
Their horses were worn out to the point of exhaustion when they returned home at last. They’d alerted some few farms they passed riding northwards, but most had already heard of the attacks and were visibly up in arms. They left behind a trail of men grimly arming themselves, and women and thralls making such other preparations as was possible in the nighttime hours.  
   
Their own farm looked no different when Einnis rode up. Torches blazed in the courtyard, and there was hectic activity all around, a nervous buzz rising to the night sky as if a large hornets’ nest had been stirred.  
   
Ketil was standing in front of the hall, talking with a man who held a foam-lathered horse. Einnis practically threw himself out of his saddle and hastened to join them, weaving in and out of the crowd in the yard.  
   
Though it was night, most of the people of the farm were moving about outside. Some women were standing in a group close to the wall, talking nervously among themselves while keeping a few crying little children close. The larger boys excitedly ran after the free-men who were walking back and forth carrying bundles of spears or large round shields collected from the storage houses and weapons chests, and hefting swords with varying degrees of confidence. Thralls were busy carrying buckets of water from the well, bringing them into the houses and also filling vats placed outside.  
   
In the torchlight Einnis could see Eoin coming into the yard, clad in his brown cloak and balancing two large buckets of water hanging from a yoke over his shoulders. For a moment their eyes met and held across the frantic courtyard commotion. Eoin’s face lit up, and he smiled. Einnis looked away.  
   
The farm dogs were barking furiously, stirred by the tension and fear radiating from the people rushing about the farm. The animals in sheds and stables had been frightened by the unusual noises and activity, and were adding their own anxious whinnies and bellows to the general din.  
   
If any attackers now approached the farm, they would have more than fair warning that the farm was getting ready for them, and that they could not win through by stealth and surprise.  
   
Ketil looked tall and proud and menacing in the flickering torch light, a warrior fit for one of the poems of the gods. He had donned both helmet and chain mail, and had strapped a broadsword to his side. His large round shield with a painting of Thor hauling the Midgard’s Worm from the depths of the sea was slung on his back. The bright beaklike nose guard on his solid helmet made him look like a sinister bird of prey. Now he stepped forward to meet his brother, his cloak flapping open for a moment to resemble dark wings spreading wide.  
   
 “I’m glad to see you returned, Einnis. You have heard the news?”  
   
“Yes, but I don’t know more than what Trond Toreson told me, when we met him down the valley, sounding the alarm. Two farms attacked and burned down, no-one knows for sure who the attackers are, so he said.”  
   
“That’s all we know for sure, too,“ Ketil said and named the two farms destroyed. “Stig here saw them passing, he brings news that the war party was large and well armed, and that they took prisoners and won themselves a rich loot before they retreated into the night. People think it’s the men of Oppland who are attacking – we’ve not seen the last of them, if so.”  
   
Einnis nodded and looked around.  
   
“Where is Sigrid?”  
   
“She and some of her women are preparing linen cloth for bandages, and clearing sufficient space for the wounded, if need be.”  
   
“Very well,” Einnis said. “I’ll go get properly armed and then I’ll join you. I noticed when we rode up that you’ve set guards around the perimeter. If they sound the alarm I’ll be ready, and we’ll give any attackers a welcome to make them realize at once that this farm is not ruled by women or cowardly thralls!  
 

\- x - 

   
Next day Einnis and Ketil sat down to agree on their further course of action. They had both of them slept but little, though no more news of skirmishes or looting had reached the farm during the night, and no enemies had been sighted.  
   
Cold dawn had come late. The windy and darkly overcast sky mirrored their mood as they sat over the morning meal, chewing dried meat and bread with scarce enthusiasm while they talked.  
   
“Not knowing where this enemy will strike next, it’s every farm for itself at first, till help can be called. Our free-men will all have to stand ready to fight. We need to muster as many men of arms as we possibly can, and that will be hard going here,” Ketil said grumpily. “Except for our regular guards, they are very rusty fighters, most of them. I should have taken this in hand earlier, more fool am I for letting it slide. Some of them scarcely handle their swords and spears better than a maiden would manage in a pinch!”  
   
“They aren’t that bad,” Einnis said stiffly. “We have had little need or cause for arms-play here in the years you were away. Every hand has been needed just to keep the farm going. This is no Earl’s manor where bodyguards and men-at-arms practice at weaponry all day long.”  
   
“I know it well. Isn’t Holmhogg proof that I agree with your decisions? You’ve done the right thing, but now we have no choice – every free-man may soon need to fight to the death to defend the farm, and they must be skilled in using their swords.”  
   
Ketil tapped his fingers on the table top, his eyes distant.  
   
“I’ll start training them in earnest right away. Odin himself only knows how long we’ve got – king Eystein’s men might be on us tomorrow!  I’ve set men to fletch more arrows and to sharpen all our swords. I think there aren’t enough swords, though…. We’ll get the smithy going right away to mend every last old and notched one we’ve got.”  
   
Once the weapons overview was complete, Ketil took a new draught of ale and continued right on with his planning.  
   
“Otherwise we’ve prepared the farm as well as we may on such short notice. From now on, the thralls will have to take over the free-men’s responsibilities around the farm. We’ll stock up on more water, and more firewood. We have to get the sleighs out today to haul much more of the animal fodder in from the out-barns where it’s stored. Otherwise we risk it being burned, even if the farm escapes attack. We’ll need every last man and woman now.…  “  
   
Realization dawned, and he looked at Einnis with an embarrassed frown.  
   
“As long as this threat from Oppland lasts, I fear there will be neither free-men nor thralls available to help build your farm, brother. We need to keep everyone here till we know for certain that the danger has passed, and the men have been properly trained.”   
   
Einnis closed his eyes and laughed, a harsh and angry bark.  
   
Ketil looked at him. “Why do you laugh?”  
   
“It has often enough been said that no man may flee from his fate,” Einnis said and snorted mirthlessly. “I see clearly now that never was a truer word spoken.”  
   
Ketil was confused. “Do you think it’s your fate not to build the farm, then?”  
   
Einnis shook his head. “Oh no. The farm will be built, even if I have to do it all on my own. I am not going back on my sworn word to Mjod. I will soon be leaving for Einstad, unless we’re attacked and I end up feasting in Valhall instead.  
   
Ketil’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. “You’re leaving?”  
   
In response, Einnis slowly quoted a well-known verse of ancient advice.

_“Now next I will tell thee, to swear no oath_  
 _If true thou knowest it’s not;_  
 _Bitter the fate of the breaker of troth,_  
 _And pitiful perjured words.”_

   
Ketil looked annoyed.  
   
“You are no oath-breaker if war forces you to alter your plans,” he said. “The foreseeable happens, and the unforeseeable too, as everyone well knows. Mjod himself will have to arm all his men and to ready them for battle and war when this news reaches him. He’d deem you an irresponsible fool if you didn’t stay here to fight.”  
   
“Maybe so”, Einnis said. “But I have given my word, and repeated it too, only a few days ago when Mjod welcomed me with much honor. Never let it be said I didn’t do all I could to keep my oath. I won’t abandon Einstad.”  
   
“What then is your plan?” Ketil asked.  
   
“I will stay here for some days yet, or for a week. I’ll help you and Sigrid, and be ready to fight – I won’t leave if there’s battle brewing even as we speak, and the farm must be defended! But after that, if we are spared attack, I will start the tree-felling at Einstad.”  
   
Einnis shifted in his seat, his chain mail clinking in the sudden silence of the room.  
   
“If I bring no more than one other man and some horses along, I can still manage to fell all the marked trees but the largest ones, and have them dragged down to the farm site. The building work may be delayed, but everything will be ready so that building can start as soon as peace has been restored to the valley.”  
   
“Don’t you think there is better use for you here, brother?” Ketil asked.  
   
“No,” Einnis replied. “I am only one man. You have taken charge now, and you are the stronger warrior, with fighting skills from many a raid and war and sword-play. You know how to lead men in war and train them. The farm is yours, and it is in safe hands, unless the gods will it differently.”  
   
Ketil sat in silence for a moment. He could hardly disagree with Einnis’s words.  
   
“Very well, he said grudgingly at last. “I see that you won’t give up, and I won’t try to change your mind. Go where your honor takes you.”  
   
He sighed. “Who do you intend to take with you?”  
   
“Jaran the Irish thrall,” Einnis promptly replied.  
   
Ketil looked up sharply. “What? Why him?” he asked.  
   
Einnis looked him square in the eye. “Why not?” he responded evenly and with emphasis.  
   
Ketil met his eyes stare for stare, but soon frowned and lowered his glance to the ale bowl. He shook his head slightly, then lifted the bowl and drank. He said nothing.  
   
Einnis relented. “Don’t you see that it makes sense? Because Jaran is a stranger here, my men accused him of causing the ills that befell us while we worked on the farm. It isn’t difficult to guess that soon they’ll start laying blame at his door for these attacks in the valley. If anyone was to harm Jaran, you’d lose not one but two thralls, since I would need another one to come north with me.”  
   
He sighed. “Every wise man knows that our gods are far stronger than that milksop the Irish pray to. The unforeseeable happens, as you said. Even our godi didn’t see omens of this war on our very own doorsteps. Jaran has nothing to do with it.”  
   
Ketil sat silent, a groove etched between his brows. Einnis paused for a moment, then ploughed on.  
   
“Jaran’s a strong worker, and now that he speaks Norse, I can make him tell me tales of Ireland and far away-places. That will make for better cheer in the lonely woods than any of the farm-born thralls could manage. The few words they have to say for themselves I already know by heart.”  
   
Ketil shrugged, his eyes unreadable. He lifted his ale bowl, seemingly tired of the topic.  
   
“You will do as you think you must, Einnis. If this really is your fate, you should meet it head-on with pride and patience.”  
   
With that their talk turned back to weapons and the plans for protection of the farm and the valley.

 

During the next week the farm made preparations for a possible attack from early till late, and there was little rest and much worry for everyone from the oldest thrall woman to Ketil Elmarson himself.  
   
Riders went back and forth among the farms in the valley, but there was no news of further attacks. The tension nevertheless remained. There was little reason to think that king Eystein would be content with having carried off loot, animals and women from only a few farms. In order for him to send a message loud and clear, more attacks would surely be coming.  
   
Even so, after one week Einnis Elmarson took leave of his brother and sister and rode north to his own farm. He was accompanied by three thralls driving sleighs filled with food, clothes and such gear and weapons as two men and a number of dogs and horses would likely need during long weeks’ work in the winter woods.  
   
Two of the thralls would return to the farm once the sleighs had been unloaded and Einnis’s camp had been properly set. Ketil had refused to send any free-men to help out with this. If their little party was attacked near Einstad, he could much better afford to lose a couple of thralls than any fighting men, he said. Einnis didn’t object, though he pointed out that an attack up in the woods of his new home was more than unlikely. As of yet there were no other farms up there, and therefore nothing to pillage worth long lonely treks through the snow. Neither was there easy passage through the hills and mountains to reach other valleys or farms.  
   
As the four of them set out to travel north, one of the thralls happened to remove his woolen cap for a minute to scratch his scalp. Einnis saw that the man’s hair had been shorn as close to the head as he’d ever seen on any thrall. Eoin noticed Einnis frowning and staring at the man, and his own hand rose to his head instinctively.  
   
“Ketil Elmarson ordered yesterday that male thralls should have their hair cut this way,” Eoin said. “They say he wants….. wants to make it clear for all to see who is a thrall, and who isn’t.”  
   
Einnis said nothing to this, but his jaws clenched.  
 

\- x - 

   
Einstad looked peaceful and unchanged, as if time had been standing still after Einnis and his men left.  
   
The four of them set about improving and strengthening the horses’ lean-to by the woods, so it would offer better protection against weather and wild animals. Nearby, hidden at the eaves of the wood, they built a little shelter with a frame of large pine branches and packed with snow on the outside. Two men would be able to sleep comfortably there. Einnis however returned to the smithy for the night, taking a couple of the dogs with him as before. He left the three thralls to sleep in the shelter.  
   
Once the camp had been built and everything on the sleighs had been unloaded, Ketil’s thralls took their leave and returned home.  
   
Einnis and Eoin were alone together.  
   
They went about their tasks in comfortable silence, feeding the animals, lighting a fire, hauling water, preparing food, and storing the rest of the goods. Eventually it was time to turn in for the night. Eoin rose and glanced towards the smithy, then turned towards the shelter in the woods. He looked at Einnis, the question in his stance and expression easy enough to read.  
   
Einnis sat looking intently into the fire, and didn’t move except to indicate the smithy with a nearly imperceptible nod in that direction.  
   
A fleeting smile crossed Eoin’s face. He went on ahead, while Einnis remained where he was, sitting close enough for the fire to warm his hands and the heat to sting his face. He stayed for a long time in the flickering circle of light, staring into the flames as they shivered and jumped and created ever-shifting mystical shapes and colors in the still winter night, sparks occasionally flying high into the air only to die with a hiss when they hit the snowy ground.  
   
Up above the sky had cleared. A magnificent array of stars stretched out, bright and beautiful, over the dark lonely woods and fields.  
   
At long last Einnis rose and walked with slow and heavy steps to the stone-walled little house in the middle of the field. He stopped for a brief moment and looked around. Icy winter air enveloped him, wrapping him in frost. Snow glinted far and wide in the night. Cold stars like distant gems and a pale moon rode the skies above the smithy.  
   
But inside there was heat and light enough to thaw the most frozen of hearts.  
   
Eoin was sitting naked at the edge of the low pallet with his legs tucked in under himself. Warm light from the blazing fire on the little hearth played over his healthy young body and painted his skin from top to toe with blushes and golden-red hues.  
   
Einnis met Eoin’s eyes and drew a deep breath, then dropped his gaze, unable to stop it from slipping downwards to where Eoin was hardening fast under his insistent stare. Einnis exhaled in a rush, and quickly averted his eyes, blood rising hotly to his cheeks.  
   
He turned away sharply and started undressing on the other side of the hearth, his back to Eoin. With shaking hands he took off cloak and cap, loosened the long winding bands that held his trousers tight around his legs, removed his leather boots and woolen socks and the trousers one by one, and finally pulled the thick shapeless winter tunic over his head.  
   
He stood tense and silent for a moment, his bare white legs looking cold and strangely vulnerable. At last he turned back to face Eoin, dressed only in his linen under-tunic, visibly tenting out in front.  
   
Eoin had been waiting patiently and had neither moved nor spoken. Now he watched as Einnis made the few steps round the hearth to stand directly in front of him and then suddenly dropped to his knees, as if his legs had turned to water.  
   
Einnis looked down to the earth floor, biting his lip, strangely powerless in the face of what he desperately wanted and craved. He had come this far, was here where fate for so long had prodded and pushed and persuaded him to go. Now he could reach out, touch and possess and devour and be devoured. But after many long months it was difficult to finally give up the fight.  
   
He hesitated, uncertain, poised on the brink of a tempting yet frightening free-fall into the unknown.  
   
Eoin leaned forward and cupped Einnis’s face between his hands, gently tilting it upward, and slowly bent down to seek his lips. Einnis twitched and resisted for one last moment, and then gave in. His lips met Eoin’s; his mouth opened under the soft sweet caresses, welcoming the tongue that sought entrance. They were cautious at first - tasting, teasing, sliding and savoring - but soon they moaned and sank into each other, deeper and deeper, pulled under by a maelstrom as their tongues twined together in wanton abandon.  
   
Desperate for air they finally had to break apart. Gasping, Eoin reached down and took hold of Einnis’s tunic hem, the fine thin linen soft and supple against his laborer’s hands as he moved to reveal the body underneath. Einnis, unresisting, closed his eyes and raised his arms as if in final surrender. Without protest he let Eoin pull the tunic all the way off, and knelt before him completely naked, laid bare in the light from the hearth’s flames and the fire in Eoin’s eyes.  
   
Einnis drew a breath and lifted his eyes to meet Eoin’s. They hungrily took in the sight of each other, reveling in strong muscled bodies, flushed skin and erect cocks, all of it screaming out to be grasped and enjoyed and greedily consumed.  
   
Eoin backed off towards the inner wall, making room, and Einnis crawled onto the pallet, his every movement jerky with need. For a breathless moment the two of them knelt there, facing each other, raw desire rising like steam between them.  
   
Eoin launched himself forward, butted his forehead against Einnis’s, gripped Einnis’s shoulders firmly, and pulled him close. “It’s all right,” he whispered, so out of breath he could hardly speak. “It’s all right”. He sensed that Einnis nodded, yielding himself completely.  
   
Their mouths met once more, the tender kiss quickly evolving into bruising, desperate passion. Einnis groaned and trembled when their chests and thighs and cocks met. Pulling each other tight, still frantically kissing, they rubbed up against each other until both forgot where his own body began and the other’s ended, all the wide world melting and blurring and dissolving around them.  
   
Eoin pushed, making Einnis lie back on the pallet. Smiling down with swollen lips and hazy eyes, he let his hands slide firmly down Einnis’s heaving chest, following the trail of blond sweaty curls. Suddenly Eoin rolled over, straddled Einnis, and pinned his hands above his head on the furs. He dove down for more kisses, deep and demanding, writhing on top of Einnis’s sweaty body beneath him, pressing down insistently as his willing captive strained up against him with equal force.  
   
He let go of Einnis’s hands and braced himself on his arms, pushing himself up off the pallet. Between their bodies they could see how they met and tangled, their cocks crossed in a duel of lust, slippery and glistening with slick and sweat. Moaning, Einnis reached down and enveloped them in a strong calloused fist, stroking and pulling on both at once, over and again, his hand and their bodies moving to an ancient rhythm of thundering hearts.  
   
Eoin was back down to Einnis’s mouth, their tongues licking and twining, matching each other gasp for frantic gasp, sucking and biting, groaning as they reached completion together.   
   
Boneless, sighing and sated, Eoin flopped down on Einnis. His eyes closed. Einnis lifted a hand to stroke Eoin’s wet warm back a couple of times, letting it slide down to squeeze a buttock briefly before it fell limply to the side.  
   
Their breathing slowed, but still they held fast to each other, skin to skin, warm and drowsy under the furs and blankets, contented beyond word or thought or hope or fear.  
   
Without saying anything about it, they both knew how it would go for the rest of the winter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fate** – The Norse believed heavily in the concept of inescapable fate. The sagas and Norse poems are filled with references to fate being unavoidable, no-one escaping the Norns’ spinning, etc. etc. All that people could do, was live life cheerfully, well and with honor as long as fate allowed, and then calmly accept fate when it caught up with them.
> 
>  **Ice spurs** – the Norse did not make use of horse shoes, but in winter they used metal spurs in the horses’ hoofs to avoid the animals slipping on ice.
> 
>  **Moon and Sun (Mani and Sol)** \- gods responsible for transporting their respective heavenly objects across the sky. Moon is always fleeing the wolf Hate, and Sun is always pursued by the wolf Skoll. At the end of the world, Ragnarok, the two wolves will overtake and devour both sun and moon. 
> 
> **Loki and Tjatse** – Tjatse was a giant who with the help of Loki abducted the goddess of youth, Idunn. When the gods found out (and were moreover growing old and grey) they threatened Loki to fetch Idunn back. He went to Tjatse’s home disguised as a falcon, found Idunn, transformed her into a nut, and then flew off with her. Tjatse in eagle shape followed in hot and angry pursuit. Loki barely made it back to Asgard where Tjatse was killed and burned. (Tjatse’s daughter Skadi repaid Loki for her father’s death when she later was to place a snake dripping venom over the bound Loki’s head.)
> 
>  **Ketil’s Helmet** – Contrary to persistent belief, the Vikings did not have horns on their helmets, except for a few specially adorned helmets of leaders of certain cultish activities. 
> 
> **Thor and the Midgard Worm (on the shield)** \- The Icelandic sagas mention such decorated shields several times. The viking shields were large and circular. Midgard’s Worm is a serpent (“wyrm”) encircling the whole world. Thor once hooked it while fishing, using a bull’s head for bait. Tor will eventually meet and be killed by this Worm in Ragnarok.
> 
>  **Feasting in Valhall** – the Norse believed that warriors who fell in battle (and only those) went to Odin’s immense home Valhall after death, where they would get to fight and kill each other each day and revive to be feasted each night on pork and mead. 
> 
> **“Now next I will tell thee…. Etc.”** \- this verse comes from the Norse Edda poem Sigrdrivamal. Sigrdriva is a valkyrie who in the poem passes on wisdom to the hero (Siegfried of the Wagner operas).
> 
>  **The foreseeable happens, and the unforeseeable too** \- another Grettir Saga proverb.
> 
>  **Oppland/King Eystein** – there was a petty kingdom called Oppland, and there have been various minor king Eysteins. The one in this fic is completely fictional, though.


	11. Chapter 11

They started out with the tree-felling the very next day, having lingered abed for some time after waking, making good use of the last dark hour before the late winter dawn. But the morning feeding of horses and dogs could not be put off, and so they were soon enough up and about.  
   
Eoin started breaking ice off the water barrel and getting a fire going for the morning meal, while Einnis fetched dried fish out of the barrel for the dogs and carried hay to the horses. They didn’t need to speak much, fell into an easy rhythm of working together, and shared a comfortable meal in the quiet and cold winter morning.  
   
Soon they were off into the woods with two horses and a sleigh filled with axes and such other equipment and food that they were going to need for the first day’s work as lumberjacks. This work was new to Eoin, and he followed Einnis’s instructions in how to hold the ax and how a spruce should be felled in order for it to fall safely in the right direction. They started out with some smaller trees that had been marked, working together to fell one tree at the time, alternating their axe blows, finding a steady rhythm between them.  
   
In this manner their first spruces were safely felled, and they set about lopping off the branches and twigs and making the timber ready for transport back to the farm. Eventually they got hooks into the denuded trunks, maneuvered the chains into position for their two horses, and harnessed them to the lumber. Slowly and surely the horses pulled the long and heavy poles through the snowy woods and back to the farm site.  
   
The number of fine, straight spruce trunks on the site, ready and waiting for the farm building, increased steadily day by day. 

\- x -

   
After more than two weeks had passed, Einnis thought it high time to see about getting some fresh meat for the dogs, but mostly for themselves. Their activities both by day and by night made for voracious appetites, and their stores were dwindling rapidly.  
   
Einnis hadn’t realized that although Eoin walked about on snow shoes easily enough, he didn’t know how to ski. Having himself been born with skis on his feet, as the saying was about northern Norsemen, Einnis saw in Eoin’s lack of skiing skills a challenge that wouldn’t long go unanswered.  
   
Immediately setting them up for a training session, Einnis demonstrated the basic techniques, and made Eoin ski back and forth in the field around their little house under his critical eyes. Eoin learned and practiced the use of the long staff, as well as how to properly move and slide on the two wooden skis, tied to his boots with leather straps. Once he mastered the basic skills with sufficient confidence, the two of them set off at an easy pace through the woods, aiming to reach higher ground. Einnis went equipped with cords and some grain intended for bird snares, and was armed with his bow and arrows. Eoin carried a working axe in his belt, and a sack with food on his back. The dogs followed in their wake, skipping happily through the snow, running back and forth, sniffing at every tree, and sometimes taking off while barking madly to chase squirrels higher into the trees along their way.  
   
The woods were otherwise cold and silent, but there were many tracks in the snow, mostly from birds. They could see where grouse and even a capercaillie had alighted, and many places there were tracks from crows or ravens. They also came across red fox tracks, and that of a lynx – at those times Einnis called the dogs in and made sure that they continued on. Though the pelts of the woodland predators might have proved valuable, that was not what the two of them were after. There weren’t any wolf tracks to be seen, though, which made them grateful, since they had heard wolves howling on a few nights, far away in the mountains.  
   
They reached higher slopes, and in the distance could see a small herd of reindeer. The animals sensed their approach too soon and took off, disappearing among the far hills.   
   
Eoin, not used to the movements of skiing, was getting tired. Though he didn’t complain he had to struggle to keep up. Einnis decided it was time to eat, and so they rested and shared their food, snuggled down in a hollow conveniently provided by an overhanging snow drift.  
   
After the meal, Einnis said it was too late in the day to continue the hunt. They turned homewards, finding three goodly-sized grouse in the snares Einnis had set on the way. Back at Einstad in the evening they packed the birds in mud and clay scraped from the floor, and threw them on the fire, where they were baked and boiled in their own juices. It was a festive and tasty meal, enjoyed with much good cheer and strong ale.  
   
It snowed during the night, a light fine powder that settled on top of the older snow crust and made for perfect skiing conditions. The clouds cleared at daybreak. The next day Einnis and Eoin set out earlier, and therefore got further. Eoin’s skills improved with every move he made. After they reached higher ground he scaled the hills and threw himself down the white slopes with an euphoric abandon that Einnis couldn’t help mimicking, both of them laughing loudly as the cold air whistled past their ears. Practically flying through the mountain air, they soared down slopes much as hunting hawks speed to strike at prey.  
   
A bit foolhardily in his delight, Eoin let himself go, whooping as he set off down a particularly steep slope, throwing himself out in front of Einnis, who had stopped to gauge the risk and the best course ahead. Though his balance was unusually good for one so new to skiing, a hidden rock created a bump in the landscape that Eoin noticed too late. Struggling to avoid it, he foundered and crashed in a spray of snow.  
   
Unharmed in body if not in pride, he remained lying on his back, chuckling at himself and his misfortune, magnificent though his fall surely had been.  
   
Einnis hurriedly pulled up next to him, a worried frown giving way to laughter as Eoin’s carefree spirit proved infectious. Looking down to that happy face, Einnis all of a sudden threw himself down on the snow, passionately seeking Eoin’s laughing lips with his own. Eoin responded with joy and desire, letting go of his skiing staff to embrace Einnis and pull him close.  
   
They spent some time kissing each other soundly there on the white slope, in the middle of nowhere, exposed to the cold blue sky and surrounded by silent and brooding woods – and after a short while also by their curious dogs. The panting breaths and yips of their spectators brought the two men back down to earth, and they got up to move on, though in very high spirits. They had to spend some time brushing snow off of each other, and also on finding Eoin’s staff, which had sailed away down the slope on its own.  
   
That day like the preceding one didn’t bring them any reindeer within shooting range, but on their way back home the dogs flushed a young moose from its cover in the woods, and when they returned home to Einstad in the evening they brought back meat enough to feast on for many days to come.  
 

\- x -

   
Their work in the woods now took them to the larger spruces marked as timber. The experience they had gained with the smaller trees stood them in good stead, for the felling of the forest giants is never without dangers.  
   
Their axes rang out insistently over the silent woods as they tackled an ancient, looming spruce. The majestic old tree didn’t give up easily. It continued balancing upright for a considerable time after their axes had cut deep enough to make it fall. At long last it started toppling, at first barely moving, slowly and gracefully, and then gaining speed as it came crashing down hard. It fell with a loud crackling sound and the rushing, swooping noise of storm winds blowing. But even in certain death it fought back. Falling well to the side of the intended direction, it came down perilously close to Eoin, who had stepped back far enough to believe himself safe. Now the huge and heavy snow-covered branches swept down, knocking him off his feet and hiding him from sight.  
   
“Eoin!” Einnis yelled, bounding through the snow like a man possessed to get round to the other side of the large bulk of branches and snow. “Eoin! Can you hear me? Eoin!”  
   
“I’m here, it’s alright,” came the muffled reply. Two large branches parted to reveal Eoin, who’d been beaten to his knees by the branches, but who’d escaped with nothing worse than a long red scratch along his right cheek where a twig had grazed him.  
   
Einnis stopped short, staring at him, his hand seeking the Tor’s hammer around his neck as Eoin started to extricate himself and removed his cap to feel his short-cropped head with slightly shaking hands.  
   
“I thought, by Thor, I thought…..” Einnis stammered. Then all at once relief and anger replaced frantic fear in his voice, battling to get the upper hand.  
   
“By Frey’s big cock and balls, you need to be more careful! Haven’t I said those sweeping branches are dangerous? Haven’t I told you….”  
   
Eoin looked at him and drew a shuddering breath, shaking his head mutely. It was enough to silence Einnis, who instead moved up close to take hold of him, nearly crushing him in a firm grip and exhaling with a moan as he hid his face in Eoin’s neck.  
   
“You could have been killed! I don’t know…. What….”  
   
The rush of dread turning to relief made them both light-headed. They inhaled the sharp smell of each other’s sweat, a powerful aroma of mingled fear and elation, and suddenly went tense for another reason. Without warning, Eoin dove for Einnis’s mouth, kissing him hard, devouring him, grasping at him to pull him tight while pushing back against the immense newly-downed tree trunk behind them. Einnis responded with equal frenzy, grinding himself up against Eoin, his hands like vices round Eoin’s arms, kissing him like there would be no tomorrow.  
   
Eoin let go of Einnis and convulsively moved his brown cloak aside, his hands going under his own tunic to loosen the drawstrings of his trousers. Einnis watched in breathless anticipation, then gripped Eoin even more firmly than before, pushing at him and scrabbling for purchase under his cloak. Eoin turned to face the strong trunk, leaning over it and bracing himself. Einnis was fumbling frantically at the front of his own trousers, moving them out of the way with one hand as he pulled Eoin’s down with the other.  
   
The tingling rush of icy cold air against their warm exposed skin was tantalizing, heightening every sensation. Eoin spread his legs as far as his restraining trousers allowed. “Come on, come on!” he urged.  
   
Einnis spat in his hand and felt his way, readying them both in desperate hurry. He pushed in, gripping Eoin’s hips for leverage, immediately setting up a forceful rhythm. Gasping and groaning they rode it out together, sweating in the cold snow of midwinter, shouting with glee in the silent woods, a deeply life-affirming ritual in the midst of frozen nature.

\- x -

One day they had visitors, two men that Sigrid had sent, traveling on ski and dragging behind them a light sleigh filled with food treats and fresh supplies. The men also brought unsettling news of events in the valley. Everything had been quiet for some time, and people had slowly dared hope that the attacks were at an end, but then the enemy had struck again, a little further south this time, burning farms, killing men, carrying off loot. The warriors were well armed and traveled on skis, moving rapidly from farm to farm and disappearing again into the woods and mountains after their surprise attacks. Now the entire district once more was in a state of high alert. Few moved far from their homes, and those that did were heavily armed, one of the men said, displaying his own sword, bow and arrows.  
   
Einnis thanked them for braving the trip, and offered each a good draught of the fine mead that Sigrid had sent him in a wine skin. The visitors looked around the farm site, praising the work that two men alone had managed to do in the darkest time of year, all the lumber now ready and waiting for the building of the new hall to begin.  
   
They did not tarry, but soon set out for the farm again while there still was daylight, bringing greetings from Einnis to his brother and sister.  
   
Einnis and Eoin made an early night of it after they’d left. They prepared a sweat bath in the forest shelter, throwing stones heated in fire into buckets of water to create a cleansing and wholesome steam. Clean and refreshed after the hot bath and a hurried dip in snow to cool off, they soon retreated to the smithy. Sitting close together on the pallet in front of the hearth fire they passed the wine skin back and forth, dark winter night pressing in all around and surrounding their little house.  
   
Einnis leaned forward, poked at the fire with a stick, threw another log on the hearth, watched the flames dance and twist right in front of his eyes.  
   
Eoin for his part watched Einnis, saw the golden light moving restlessly over his pensive face, noticing how it made the blond hair and beard seem ruddy like Tor’s.   
   
“Why do they call you Eldhug?” he quietly asked.  
   
Einnis cast a glance in his direction, a pensive smile forming on his lips.  
   
“It was Ketil gave me that name the first time, and then my father after him,” he replied. “It was a long time ago…. I was just a little boy.”  
   
He paused for a moment, staring into the fire again, moving on the pallet to find a better position. Eoin inched closer, handed Einnis the wineskin, and watched him take a good draught.  
   
“When I was a little boy, my mother used to tell me sagas of great warriors and many tales of the gods. While she was spinning or weaving in the evenings, I’d sit next to her, listening to all she had to tell. I used to look into the fire on the hearth, how it moved about and beckoned, it was as if the gods and warriors and their adventures and brave deeds took shape and came alive in the flames….”  
   
Einnis took another sip from the wineskin, paused again, then continued, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur in the night.  
   
“Ketil would laugh at me and mock me then, and call me Eldhug. One day I overheard him saying to another boy that I was just like a little girl, sitting there dreaming of the strong hero who would come riding through the flames to woo and win me.”  
   
He shook his head, remembering.  
   
“I was, what – five years old? I told my father what Ketil had said, and he laughed loudly at me and told me there was only one way for a man to deal with such an insult. He told me to get at Ketil unawares and punch him hard so he’d understand.”  
   
He shrugged.  
   
“So that’s what I did. The next time Ketil laughed at me, I jumped him like a berserker as soon as he turned his back. I had him on the ground and beat him bloody with my fists, kicked and screamed and head-butted him. I knocked him cold. After that he knew I was no girl, all right, and from then on he’s treated me like a true brother. And that’s when my father said I had earned myself the name Eldhug in praise and not in scorn, for he saw a fire in my mind that would rule my fists and burn in my heart and make me a strong warrior.”  
   
Eoin looked at him, his eyes sad. “What was your father like?”  
   
“Oh….” Einnis said. “He was a hard man, strict and strong, but everyone said he was fair. Lesser people feared him, for if he felt insulted he was quick to draw his sword, and he knew how to use it. He raised his sons to be strong and brave just like him. I remember the first time I saw a man lose his life to the sword – I was nine years old or so. Father brought Ketil and me along to watch, for real men should be used to blood and death and swift justice, he said. It was a thrall who had displeased my father in some way or other. Well, he knelt there on the ground, he’d been roughed up already, there was blood on his face and both his eyes were swollen shut. He could barely keep upright. His arms were tied behind his back.”  
   
Einnis poked the fire again, bright sparks flying up around his hand to die as soon as they met colder air.  
   
“We stood right by father’s side as he cut that thrall down with his sword. I remember how the blood spurted everywhere, red and hot, it covered the front of my tunic, and father laughed at that. Then he had his men throw the body on the dunghill.”  
   
Eoin grew tense. “What a terrible fate!”  
   
They sat in silence for a moment, staring into the fire, each lost in his own somber thoughts.  
   
“My father was just as hard, and he was cruel,” Eoin eventually said. “We had a small farm and he did a little wood-carving on the side, earning some silver with that. But we didn’t always have enough food. He made me work hard all day even when I was a little boy, and he was never content, no matter how hard I tried to please him. He used to beat me… with his hand, or a strap, or a stick… Nothing I did found favor with him, everything was wrong. He always mocked me and laughed at me and put me down.”  
   
He looked at Einnis. “I hated him,” he said calmly.  
   
As Einnis turned towards him, Eoin met his eyes evenly. “He nearly beat me to death, one time, when our cow took sick and died even if I watched over it. The priest who served our village came to give me… give me… uhm… nabjarg? When it seemed I’d live after all, the priest helped mother take care of me. Then he took me to the… the…“  
   
Once more he fumbled for the proper Norse word. “The monk-house? I knew I was finally saved then, I got away while I still could walk, and found a better life.”   
   
“What did you do to make your father scorn you and beat you so?” Einnis asked, blood rushing to his head and his hands curling angrily into fists, as if preparing for a fight.  
   
“I do not know, Einnis. He never liked me. He treated me more like a thrall than most people here have done. I have been wondering if…. maybe… “ He sighed. “There is a dream, or maybe a memory in my head. I see another man, a man with light brown hair and a very loud laugh and a heavy gold ring with dragon heads on his finger. And when I learned to speak Norse this year, it was like being told something I already knew. I think… maybe my mother stayed with one of the Norsemen in Dublin when I was a small child? Perhaps she and I were taken away from home by force, just like I was taken last year, but escaped back home again after a while? I do not know. But I think maybe this is why I speak your language so well already.”  
   
“So that’s the reason!” Einnis exclaimed, momentarily distracted despite himself. “I wondered, the first time you said my name, how come you could get it just right,” he added sheepishly when Eoin sent him a look.  
   
Eoin gave him a brief little smile, shaking his head. “No, Einnis Eldhug. That was because I had said your name in my mind many times by then”.  
   
Einnis ducked his head, and didn’t respond.  
   
Eoin sighed, returning to his tale. “Well, I think perhaps this may have been the real reason my father couldn’t like me, even if my mother called me his son and he never denied that. She cried when he beat me.”  
   
He looked down and bit his lip. “He beat her too, for not giving him other heirs. Except for me, their union was barren.” He closed his eyes. “I had word that she died when I stayed with the monks. I never got to see her again.”  
   
“So you’ve got no kin then, and no clan to claim as yours?” Einnis asked, his voice filled with wonder and dread.  
   
Eoin shook his head. “The monks and the men of God were all the family I had,” he said.  
   
Einnis didn’t ask more questions, but edged towards him on the pallet till their thighs and shoulders were touching. For a moment he put his arm round Eoin’s shoulders and pulled him close, leaning his head on his shoulder. Then he released him, handed him the wine skin and watched him drink.  
   
They sat like that, each silently comforted by the other’s body heat and presence, passing the wine skin back and forth till it had been completely emptied. They fell asleep with bodies spent and entwined as always.   
 

\- x -

   
They never talked about Eoin’s morning and evening prayers, Einnis busying himself with other things or pretending to sleep all the while until Eoin made the sign of the cross in end salutation.  
   
They never talked about their passionate couplings either, just let it happen every night on the pallet, and most times in the morning too. A few days the weather was too bad for them to venture much outside, and they stayed on the pallet all day, reveling in each other again and again, and discovering new ways of pleasing each other. Their young strong bodies were tired after long days of hard labor and constant physical activity, but they were never once too weary to enjoy each other.   
   
Sometimes they would fall asleep immediately afterwards, closely wrapped together like two bears hibernating in a sheltered winter den. But other times they would lie awake after, bare heated skin touching skin from top to toe, snug and warm in their nest of blankets and furs, with Einnis’s blue wool cloak and Eoin’s brown one on top of the blankets during particularly cold nights.  
   
They would watch the fire dying on their little hearth, would watch the embers glowing in the dark. Then they would talk, but never of the future or the past. Instead Eoin would tell Einnis remembered snatches of old Irish tales, speaking softly in Gaelic, the tales of Conn and Conle, of Etain, of Tir na nOg the wondrous country in the far west beyond his old home. Other times he would tell sagas from the bible as he recollected them, and sing psalms, the beautiful hymns that he remembered from the monastery, seeing no need to mention to Einnis that these were stories and songs in praise of Heaven. Eoin thought they fit the situation. His voice clear and gentle, the words of the foreign language and the unfamiliar tunes would wash over Einnis like rivulets of sweet sounds, like tender caresses.  
   
Einnis in his turn would hum snatches of songs he knew, the old lullabies his mother once used to sing him, or bawdy songs from the ale halls. He dredged bards’ verses in praise of kings and warriors up from his memory, murmuring slowly as the poetry and intricate imagery returned to him. Because the poems were filled with kennings and steeped in ancient formal language, Eoin didn’t understand all of them. But the gravity and pride in Einnis’s deep voice and his respectful expression communicated their meaning to him all the same. Einnis knew much of Havamal, the Word of the High One, and recited it with reverence. One verse Eoin made him repeat several times to be certain that he understood it right and would be able to remember it himself; so well did he like it.  
 

_“Young was I once, I walked alone,_  
_and bewildered I lost my way;_  
_rich I felt when I found me another,_  
_for man is the joy of man.”_

   
One time Eoin laughingly challenged Einnis to make him a poem of his very own, and the next night Einnis did say forth his own small kvad that he’d composed the same day. They were lying curled up together in the night, had already been shouting their joint release to the darkness far beyond the smithy, and were laughing and snorting afterwards in exuberant delight. But they both turned serious and still as Einnis murmured his poem of praise into the hollow between Eoin’s neck and shoulder. Einnis was no proper skald, and his brief poetry was filled with strained imagery, missing rhymes and a slightly limping rhythm. But for all that, it was the sweetest thing that Eoin had ever heard.  
   
For a long time neither of them spoke, the only sound between them their strong and steady heartbeats and their breaths, soft as kisses. The banked embers crackled faintly and reassuringly, and outside the night wind whispered as it slipped unheeded past the sturdy stone walls and onward to the snowy mountains.  
   
Eoin’s hand came up to stroke Einnis’s hair. He smiled at the near-invisible blond head next to him, good cheer bubbling up in his breast, his happiness spilling over into laughter.  
   
“Einnis Elmarson Eldhug, did you just tell me in all seriousness that my eyes are like Njord’s field when it takes the color of the sky?”  
   
Ennis cleared his throat, embarrassed. “You Irish numb-skull. You heard me. Bardic poetry is supposed to be just like that, all fanciful and what not.”  
   
“Did you just say my brows seem to you like a raven’s wings?” Eoin chuckled softly as he stretched languidly against Einnis, skin slipping and rubbing on skin.  
   
“Are you sure you didn’t mean to say my voice remind you of a raven’s?” Eoin cawed hoarsely right into Einnis’s ear. “Like that?”  
   
Einnis laughed despite himself, a low and carefree rumble.  
   
“Are you sure you didn’t mean to say I feed just like a raven?” Eoin bit into Einnis’s earlobe with sharp teeth, held it captive for a moment, then nipped and nibbled his way along the other man’s neck and into the hollow of his throat, biting the soft skin lightly before letting go.  
   
He lifted his head again, his lips finding Einnis’s in the dark. They shared a slow tender kiss, tongues touching and twining, making it last till they had no choice but to pull apart for air. Eoin rubbed his cheek against Einnis’s, and drew a deep steadying breath. He slid downwards, disappearing under the covers, unerringly finding his goal, reveling in the strong, distinct scent of mingled sweat and seed. Gently and repeatedly he stroked Einnis’s inner thighs, light tantalizing touches to make him spread his legs wider and make room. With that Eoin positioned himself and took Einnis deep into his mouth. His tongue teased and tasted the hard eager flesh, his lips creating firm suction, setting a maddeningly slow and deliberate pace. Both men shuddered at the sensations, desire like bright licking flames reaching their very cores. Einnis moaned and writhed, tensing up, shivering as he found his release, Eoin humming around him as he gladly received all that Einnis had to give.  
   
Crawling back up to kiss Einnis and give him a taste of himself, Eoin continued his queries as if he’d never halted them, his voice a warm whisper in the night.  
   
"Or perhaps you meant to say that I mate like a raven?" His wet open lips sought Einnis’s once more, even as Einnis’s hand moved under the blankets, seeking Eoin’s erection.  
   
“I think you may be right, Einnis. I am a raven. For ravens mate only once. They mate for life, don’t they?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nabjarg** : The Vikings considered it an obligation to “help the dead” which is the meaning of the word “nabjarg”, ie. they were obliged to close the mouth, nose and eyes of someone who had just died. Eoin is trying to explain that the Priest was about to offer him last rites, but doesn’t have the words for that in Norse. 
> 
> **Dublin** : Vikings established numerous settlements in Ireland in the last half of the AD 800’s and around AD 900. Dublin was the first, and lasted the longest. 
> 
> **“Young was I once, etc”** : This verse is stanza no. 47 of Havamal. The verse as here quoted is a faithful rendition of the old Norse text, I have not in any way fiddled with the translation to make it fit my fic. Odin is talking (to men) about friendship and human companionship here, not about gay love, but that’s his loss. 
> 
> **“Eldhug”** : Eld=fire, hug=thought, mind
> 
>  **“…dreaming of the hero who would come riding through the flames to woo and win me”** : Ketil’s scorn was no doubt inspired by the Saga of the Volsungs, where the hero Sigurd (Siegfried) passes through the flames of a raging fire in order to reach and win the valkyrie Brynhild (Brünnhilde). 
> 
> **Kenning** : A descriptive phrase/euphemism/circumlocution used instead of an ordinary noun or name in Old Norse poetry. Frequent use of kennings was a requirement in the strict rules of Norse poetry. As an example, in the poem Haustlong about Thor’s fight with a giant, in 3 stanzas Thor’s name isn’t mentioned once, but instead Thor is called all the following kennings: The terror of giants, Jord’s son, Meile’s brother, Ull’s in-law, the Wagon-god, Odin’s son, the Strong one, and The crushing hammer’s friend.
> 
>  **Kvad** : A lay, a Norse traditional poem.
> 
>  **Skald** : Bard. The skalds and their art were very highly thought of. After all, their poems in praise of lords and kings, if well done, would secure these rulers that which they sought more than anything – renown and fame lasting after they themselves were long dead. All the kings and lords had skalds among their retinue.


	12. Chapter 12

The year was turning day by day away from winter and looking towards spring.  
   
Daylight hours grew longer, and the sun once more started providing heat as well as light. On fine days the snow was dwindling in sunny patches. Melt-water dripped steadily from outcrops and overhanging branches. In sheltered spots among the trees and on south-facing hillsides the snow disappeared entirely, yielding to the first tender green shoots of spring.  
   
The time for Sigrid’s wedding was approaching, but neither Einnis nor Eoin mentioned it. If anything, their couplings grew more frenzied and frequent, an intensity born of the long cold winter nights that now were under fierce attack, fighting a losing battle with the sun.  
   
The days being longer meant they could work more in the woods, but it also meant increased difficulties in transporting timber back to the farm site. The remaining snow was slushy and the horses struggled as they sank deeper, in some places churning the ground underfoot into a mire of mud and wet snow.  
   
One day Einnis decided it was time for another foray up the mountain where the snow still held spring at bay. Though neither of the men said it out loud, they knew this might well be their last such outing of the winter. Even so, the crisp air and the exhilarating speed as they navigated slope after slope and raced down steep hillsides lifted their spirits and had them hollering with delight, the dogs loping behind, tongues lolling as they rushed to keep up.  
   
They set snares on the way up the mountain, and going back down parted ways for a while to see to half the snares each. Eoin finished his lot first, and returned to the place they’d agreed to meet, a flat hillside shelf with a wide west-facing view. He let his backpack drop and remained standing there, looking out over the long reaches of woods and fields towards the distant mountains, one peak losing itself behind the other, their many shades of blue deepening as the sun sank towards them. Far away he could see a few thin lines of smoke climbing high in the clear air, the only sign that other humans were present in this peaceful, lonely land.  
   
Eoin didn’t turn as he heard the sound of another skier approaching. He stood silent and motionless, entranced by the breathtaking view, so different from the countryside surrounding his own home.  
   
Einnis wordlessly let his skis slide up, one on each side of Eoin’s, and didn’t halt till his chest pressed firmly against Eoin’s back. He embraced the other from behind, strong arms holding on tight, placed his chin in the crook of Eoin’s neck, and drew a deep breath.  
   
“There now, you’re sleeping on your feet like a horse…..”  
   
They remained standing close together, swaying slightly. Eoin’s hands came up to hold Einnis’s arms, pressing them to his heart, his face tilting so their cheeks were touching. Einnis hummed low and contentedly as they both looked out west to the sinking sun.  
   
The sky turned to flames in front of them, a veritable bonfire of the gods. Towering clouds were rolling in majestically from the north, and the first long fingers of mist and rain were feeling their way through the cold shimmering air, past the sun’s glowing disc and southwards.  
   
The sun dipped behind the trailing band of frontrunner clouds for a moment only to reappear below it in increased splendor. Squeezed between heaven and earth it bled crimson and gold, setting the sky ablaze with color and light. The underside of each sleek cloud showed a luminous perfect pink, while their backs turned the dark blue of night, creating a lid that tried in vain to contain the fire of the sun. The distant landscape with its far mass of snow-tipped mountains stood in stark solid contrast to the sky’s boundless brilliance. Black woods and jagged rocks seemed to stretch to the very ends of Midgard, earth’s massive and heavy forms straining skywards out of darkness, cold limbs of stone longingly reaching for the flames above, borrowing a tiny little bit of heaven’s brightness where dark met light on the horizon.  
   
The skies above the clouds, still calm and clear despite the onslaught from the north, displayed every translucent nuance; a narrow golden band turning to pale yellows and shimmering reds, and higher up transforming into deep, tranquil blues.  
   
The two men stood like one single being alone in a vast landscape, surrounded by nature’s power and magnificence. They watched the fiery display in wonder and awe, their hearts beating strong and true till the last blink of sun disappeared behind the mountains.  
   
All of a sudden earth turned leaden and bleak. The glow of colors drained from the sky, leaving nothing behind but a muted pink sheen, like a memory of past greatness on the far horizon.  
   
Eoin lifted his right hand from its resting place on Einnis’s arm, reverently making the sign of the cross in front of them both.  
   
Einnis gave a little drowsy shake and pushed himself back and away, as if waking from sleep. Eoin turned to look at him, a dreamy smile on his face. Their eyes locked; no words were needed.  
   
 Behind them the sky had turned very dark. It was time to go.  
 

\- X - 

   
The next day they woke to dull grayness. The approaching clouds had rolled in, heavy and dense, and now covered the skies completely, sucking all light from the landscape.  
   
Their work in the woods was slow going, a listless battle with damp axe handles, dripping spruce branches and recalcitrant muddy slopes. The air had a chill bitter bite to it. They struggled on, relieved when enough time had gone by for them to turn towards Einstad and call it a day. Eoin led their team of weary horses hauling the last tree bole. Einnis walked beside him, his eyes as always scanning the woods from long-ingrained habit.  
   
“Let’s get a sweat bath tonight?” he proposed, drawing a dirty hand tiredly across his forehead.  
   
“Yes, I am frozen through to my very bones. Every part of me is chilled and longs to be warmed up good,” Eoin replied. The look that passed between them held its own heated promise.  
   
They were close to the wood’s edge and the home fields when the lead dog stiffened, and the other dogs followed suit. Then all at once they took off in the direction of Einstad. Einnis called out to them sharply, but it was too late. Only one dog returned to his side. Eoin halted the horses. The two men looked at each other.  
   
“There’s something or someone there,” Einnis said.  
   
Eoin nodded. “Should I leave the horses?”  
   
“I think you’d better,” Einnis muttered tensely. He cautiously walked the short distance to the wood’s edge, peering out from behind the trees.  
   
The Einstad fields were teeming with men and horses. Long lost in solitude, now all of a sudden there seemed to be life and activity everywhere. Some men had surrounded the smithy, others stood looking and pointing at the lumber, and some were leading pack horses towards the lean-to. Two sleighs stood in the middle of the field. Many dogs were running back and forth, excited by the commotion.  
   
Einnis counted twelve men in all, most of them warmly dressed and well armed, and many more horses. He looked them over carefully, his hand resting on his sword hilt. Eoin stepped up silently next to him, his face intent.  
   
The tallest man out there and the group’s leader, judging by his fine attire and magnificent helmet, had his back turned to the woods. Einnis studied him for a moment, then nodded once to himself in realization. Tension did not leave his shoulders, but he drew a deep breath and stepped forward.  
   
“Ketil, welcome to Einstad and well met!” he called out.  
   
He could hear a small sound like a sigh from Eoin, but didn’t turn back to him, and the thrall did not follow on out of the woods.  
   
The heads of men and horses alike turned in Einnis’s direction. Ketil Elmarson strode quickly through the slushy snow, walking up to meet him half-way and patting his back forcefully.  
   
“Well met, Einnis! You have wasted no time here over the winter, I see. Well done, brother. I’m impressed!” He grinned. “The threat from King Eystein is over for now, during spring thaw his men can’t come and go without being mired in mud, and during summer they’ll take to the ships for sure. I’m bringing you all these men and fresh supplies to help build the farm at last. See, I’m honoring my promise, and only by the will of the gods did I tarry this long!”  
   
Einnis smiled at him and gripped Ketil’s arm in his turn. “Good news, brother!” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Eoin emerging from the woods, slowly leading the team of horses and their cumbersome load towards Einstad’s lumber yard.  
   
“Now, let’s get the evening meal going! You must all be hungry after the ride,” Einnis said loudly, searching the men’s faces and nodding in greeting to those he knew. He could see that Ketil had taken on several new men during the winter.  
   
“I myself could eat a horse!”  
 

\- X - 

   
Despite his bold statement, Einnis Elmarson could be seen to merely peck at his food when they all gathered around the cooking fire for the meal. He sat next to his brother as dusk fell and turned to night, listening to all he had to tell, and on occasion asking a question to keep the talk going. The free-men joined in with comments now and then, but otherwise talked and joked among themselves, and became rowdier for every pass of the ale bowl between them. The three thralls Ketil had brought sat quietly to the side.  
   
Eventually Einnis rose with a muttered excuse, striding into the darkness to relieve himself.  
   
Returning, he stopped just outside of the fire’s bright circle, his eyes drawn to Eoin as always. The thrall was sitting by himself at the edge of light, his head bent over his porridge bowl and his face hidden from view under the dark hair that had grown long during the winter.  
   
Einnis rested his eyes on Eoin a moment, then carefully scanned the other men, one by one. Two of the ones he didn’t yet know were sitting next to each other, heads close together and grinning madly as one made exaggerated upwards stabbing motions with his hand, laughing out loud as the other let his eyes go wide and his mouth gape open, hands going to his heart in mock pain and horror. He seemed ready to keel over for a moment before righting himself and laughing in his turn. Unexpectedly, the first man’s glance swung towards Eoin’s quiet form and rested there for a brief moment, a sneer crossing his features as his dark eyes glittered in the firelight. Then he turned back and laughed once more, elbowing his companion jokingly in the side, and reached for the ale bowl with a good-natured boisterous comment.  
   
Einnis stepped round the men and closed in on Eoin.  
   
“Jaran, finish up, I have work for you,” he said sharply. Eoin looked up, his face carefully neutral. He rose to his feet and bowed.  
   
“Yes, Einnis Elmarson?” he replied.  
   
“Go over to my house and make sure everything is in proper order so my brother and I can rest well there tonight. Clean up if it’s necessary, and shake out the blankets.”  
   
Eoin nodded and lowered his eyes. He started to walk in the direction of the smithy. Einnis moved with him for a few steps.  
   
“Do not sleep near the other men tonight, keep well away from them,” he whispered hurriedly. “You can sleep with the horses, perhaps, but don’t let anyone know. Be very careful and look out!”  
   
Eoin nodded, unsurprised, and kept right on walking. Einnis didn’t start breathing again till well after he’d returned to his brother’s side.

 

As soon as Eoin returned to report that the smithy was ready, Ketil wanted to take his rest for the night. Einnis followed him, looking back for a moment to see Eoin disappearing in the darkness. By now the thrall knew every little nook and cranny of the farm site and beyond, so much so that he probably could make his way blindfold.  
   
Ketil ducked through the smithy’s low door and looked around.  
   
“I should think, after having stayed in this miserable little hovel for months, you’ll be more than eager to come back home with me for a spell to enjoy better cheer and comfort than this,” he said, wasting no time in starting to undress.  
   
Einnis stopped just inside the door, holding himself tense and still. “I’ll be back at the farm for Sigrid’s wedding, as you know.”  
   
“No, I need you to come home with me tomorrow,” Ketil said. “I’m leaving behind nine men to work on your farm, you need have no worries on that score.”  
   
“Tomorrow?” Einnis exclaimed. “I don’t think…. I can’t do that, Ketil. There’s too much here that I have to….”  
   
“Are you that fond of breaking your back in the company of some stupid Irish thrall? No reason to be concerned, Einnis. Svein will be staying on here to lead the men. He’s solid, and you know it.”  
   
Having by now shed all his clothes except his under-tunic, Ketil crept onto the pallet and made himself comfortable, drawing the blankets up to his chin. He sniffed loudly and pointedly, and then burst out laughing. “By Freya’s fine and firm behind, Einnis, you can’t deny that you’re desperate to get back home and to have yourself a woman, or two, or three!”  
   
Pumping one hand vigorously up and down in the air over his groin to demonstrate his point, Ketil chuckled. “The smell in here is just like the one in a camp of warriors where there aren’t any whores to go round.”  
   
He smirked knowingly. “Your right hand must be worn out!”  
   
Einnis didn’t reply.  
   
Ketil yawned. “Well, I am tired, let’s talk about serious matters in the morning. I have something to ask of you,” he said, and with that he fell asleep at once, sprawling under the blankets and snoring mightily. He had drunk more than his share of the ale in the course of the evening.  
   
Einnis quietly undressed and lay down next to his brother, as close as possible to the pallet’s edge. He stared towards the closed door with dry unblinking eyes. It took a long time before sleep claimed him at last.  
 

\- X - 

   
Einnis was up very early the next morning, throwing his clothes on and going outside before it was properly light. As he walked towards the men’s hastily erected tents he glimpsed Eoin’s brown cloak by the fire. The thrall was crouching down to feed the flames with new logs, and Einnis hurried in his direction. As he approached he saw that three of Ketil’s men were already up and sitting nearby, mumbling together in low tones, so Einnis restrained himself to a nod in Eoin’s direction, and a non-committal grunt. Saying a brief good-morning to the men, he walked on to the horse’s lean-to, and spent some little time checking on the animals, breathing in their comforting warmth and leaning his forehead against a warm flank. He stroked the animals’ soft muzzles and murmured a few endearments.  
   
“Well now, this is where you’re hiding out!” Ketil looked in through the shed’s door, grinning. ”I might have known, you always seemed to like horses better than people.”  
   
He looked around and shook his head. “It’s too narrow in here, no place to move or breathe – come on out, I’ll tell you what I’ve been planning!”  
   
Einnis silently followed him outside, stamping his feet in the chill morning air and pulling his cloak around himself.  
   
Ketil at once launched into his tale.  
   
“Did you know that the master of Austrum was killed when that farm was burned? I suppose you heard as much, even up here? Well, his widow, Helga Hauksdottir, has since moved back to her own place. It was part of her dowry, as you know - so now she’s our neighbor. She holds a rich inheritance and large properties for herself and her young daughter. Though Austrum burned, its pastures remain!”  
   
His eyes bored into Einnis’s. “If I married her, imagine the respect I would gain from such an alliance, the power I could wield at the Ting! All men would listen to me. I’d be among the mightiest men of the valley! Imagine having such a man for your brother, Einnis – consider the benefits to the clan!”  
   
He drew a breath.  
   
“I want you to come home to speak to Helga for me, to ask for her hand in marriage,” he said, his voice dropping in volume but gaining in intensity. “The matter is most urgent, otherwise I would have sent for father’s brother to travel up here to speak on my behalf. But there’s no time for that, I have had certain word that two chieftains in the valley are also getting ready to woo her!”  
   
Einnis looked down at the old and dirty snow in front of his feet, speckled with mud, horse shit and rotting straw. “Have you had many words with her? Are you sure you two will get along?”  
   
“Oh, bother, what does that have to do with anything?” Ketil flared up, then shrugged. “Forget what I said. I know you’re right. An unhappy wife, or one who’s a shrew, makes for tiresome days at the board, and little joy in bed.”  
   
He clapped Einnis on the shoulder. “She’s a fine and strong woman, good-looking, and shrewd when it comes to increasing her riches. It would be a good match, and I am sure she realizes that just as much as we do.”  
   
He grinned. “And let’s not forget, I’m not half bad to look at, and in bed I’ve got the size and stamina of Frey himself!” He winked. “They do say she’s a hot-blooded woman. We’ll be well matched.”  
   
Ketil drew a breath. “So, will you come with me today now that you know what’s at stake? Our clan will be strengthened by this marriage. Her brothers are mighty men in Hadeland, and very well connected.  
   
Einnis swallowed a sigh, and looked up. “Of course I’ll come with you, Ketil. This would be a truly advantageous match for you, and for all of us.”  
   
Ketil beamed. “I’m glad, brother! That’s settled then. When we’ve eaten, have that thrall of yours pack up your belongings on a horse before he goes on to the tree-felling. We’ll leave as soon as we may!”  
   
Einnis hesitated. “I’ll do that, Ketil, but I’ll have you know Eoin himself is one belonging that’ll be coming home with me.”  
   
Ketil looked up sharply. “Eoin?”  
   
Einnis bit his lip. “I meant Jaran, of course. He’s coming back home with me.”  
   
“I see no reason for that. We have enough thralls at home, and you need workers to get the farm erected. Leave him here.”  
   
Einnis shook his head insistently, not meeting his brother’s eyes.  
   
Ketil pressed on. “Why are you so strangely occupied with this thrall’s wellbeing?”  
   
“I’m not. I’m trying to be fair. He’s served me well and faithfully, day by day all this winter. He’s worked hard without fail. Look at all the lumber out there – do you think I managed all that on my own?”  
   
“He’s a thrall, for Tor’s sake! I think you’ve forgotten that, alone here with him for so long. He’s supposed to work hard! That’s all they’re good for, what other reason to feed them and clothe them and keep them alive?”  
   
Einnis looked up sharply. “Now that you mention keeping him alive - I think two of your men plan on harming Jaran,” he said coldly. “Do you know anything about that?”  
   
“Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t, Einnis Eldhug,” Ketil said challengingly. “What of it? You’ll be much better off without this miserable being who has witnessed you working like a thrall yourself, like a poor wretch without kin or clan. He shouldn’t be allowed to spread such tales of you around, and you know he will, if given the chance. Thralls have no honor, they keep no secrets. Before you know it, people will start calling you Einnis the Thrall-turned! Your renown will be ruined, and the clan will suffer. It’s doubtful Helga Hauksdottir would abide calling a man of such dubious fame her brother-in-law.”  
   
Einnis ground his teeth and balled his fists. “Be careful what you say to me, Ketil! Such insults can hardly be overlooked, even when a brother speaks them!”  
   
“I’m not insulting you, I’m speaking the truth where you chose to disregard it! Hard truths maybe, but no less real for that!”  
   
“You’re exaggerating, Ketil. People know why I was up here alone. They’ll say I stay true to my oaths and keep my word, in good times and bad – and better renown I think a man can hardly earn himself.”  
   
Ketil drew a steadying breath. “I’ll gift you with another thrall, just as strong and able” he said earnestly. “Let my men deal with this one.”  
   
Einnis looked at him, his eyes turning to slits in his drawn face. “Do you remember that beat-up thrall father cut down right in front of us when we were boys, killing him for no good reason at all? Is that the fate you think Jaran deserves?”  
   
“He’s just a thrall! A thrall, Einnis! You seem to be dealing with him as if he were a family member. For shame! The creature probably thinks that he must be your long lost brother!”  
   
Ketil shook his head angrily. “If he isn’t around to boast about the generosity you’ve apparently been showing him, no-one will ever know enough to embellish the stories about your lowering yourself to treat a thrall almost as if he were your equal. Kill him and such tales die with him. Your good name as a courageous man and a strong warrior will be secure, and the renown of the clan will not be tarnished.”  
   
Einnis looked over to the camp site, where all the men were now gathering for the morning meal. In addition to Eoin there were eleven men, loyal to Ketil, the free-men well trained in arms-play, strong and rested.  
   
“I’m no thrall-friend! I remember my station, and my worth! You’ve put me down before, you once called me a girl,” Einnis grated. “Do you recall how that turned out?”  
   
“I do remember,” Ketil said evenly, stretching himself to his full well-muscled height. “I am not saying you lack balls, brother, and back then you proved that you don’t. But we’re grown men now, and ill-advised deeds may be due to thoughtlessness or lack of foresight and judgment, not lack of courage. In such cases a brother is the closest one to intervene.”  
   
He stepped right up in Einnis’s face, his voice low and insistent. “I’m telling you, if you keep that thrall with you, if you let him live to talk about this winter and your companionship, you’ll be deemed less of a man, and men of good standing will scorn you for having demeaned yourself so. And don’t forget, nothing travels as fast as the ugliest lies and most slanderous tales, so have a care, little brother!”  
   
Einnis grew deathly pale. “What do you mean?” he whispered hoarsely.  
   
Ketil’s voice sank to a mere whisper in turn. “Think about how people are always eager to believe the very worst, Einnis. You two have been alone here for months without womenfolk. If your long-haired and foreign thrall speaks too well of your kindness and care some might take it into their heads to wonder whether you grew soft enough to use him as your woman.”  
   
Einnis recoiled, stepping back swiftly, a growl escaping his constricted throat even as his fists came up.  
   
Ketil quickly held out his hands, placatingly. “I know you, Einnis. I know you would rather die than ever commit such shameful, unmanly acts. But idle tongues are too easily set to wagging. You can’t take that risk.”   
   
Einnis closed his eyes and shuddered, lowering his head. His shoulders slumped. Eventually he responded, softly as a sigh.  
   
“Perhaps you’ve got a point, Ketil. Yet if I were to let you do this deed, all men would call me an oath-breaker for sure, for I have already traded Jaran off to Torgeirr. We shook hands on the deal at yuletide.”  
   
Ketil started in surprise. “What?”  
   
“We agreed about this when I rode with him on his return journey. He’ll take Jaran back with him when he leaves your farm after the marriage.”  
   
Ketil shrugged. “So, we’ll just give him another fit thrall.”  
   
“No. He needs an Irish thrall, and one who already knows his ambatt and how to deal with her. She’s carrying Torgeirr’s child and he wants to do well by her when he sends her away. He wants Jaran and no other.”  
   
“Do well by his ambatt?” Ketil spat, incredulous. “Torgeirr seems far too soft-hearted when it comes to women. Next thing you know, he’ll go even further and make a free-woman of the slut!”  
   
“It’s hardly a bad thing that the man who’s marrying our sister is kind to his women,” Einnis said, a hint of sharpness and exasperation returning to his voice. “No need to bad-mouth him overly much on that score! And however all that is, I’ve made a deal. Would you have me break my word to our brother-in-law as the first thing I do when he marries Sigrid?”  
   
Ketil frowned. “No. I want us to be on the best of terms with Torgeirr. It would make no sense to annoy him for such a little reason. The kinship with him is important. Especially now, when I need to prove our clan’s worth to Helga.”  
   
Einnis pushed his advantage, trying to regain a small sliver of all the ground he’d lost. “Do I have your word then that you’ll let Jaran be, till Torgeirr takes him away in a few weeks’ time?”  
   
Ketil's jaws clenched and his eyes blazed, but he nodded.  
   
“Yes, brother. You have my word.”  
   
He made to leave, but looked back at Einnis over his shoulder to deliver a harsh parting shot. "Now mind you keep yourself far away from that annoying thrall of yours. Don't give my men or our people at the farm the slightest further reason to talk about the two of you, or I’ll consider my promise void!"  
   
With that Ketil abruptly marched back to the fire where the men had gathered, his costly cloak billowing out behind him like the sail of a longship leaving for distant shores.  
   
Einnis stood rooted to the spot for a while, staring after him with unseeing eyes.  
 

\- X - 

   
Soon thereafter the brothers left for home, riding in front of a small retinue consisting of two men-at-arms and Eoin, who followed last trailing a packhorse.  
   
The brothers found few things to say to each other, and the whole company’s mood was somber and uneasy. They all huddled in their cloaks, heads down, shielding their faces from occasional flurries of stinging hailstones. It was a long ride home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Second marriages** – A woman’s first marriage was arranged by her family and certainly required the consent of her clan, or she would be considered her husband’s ambatt and her inheritance (and that of her children) would be forfeit. Widows and divorcees of independent means however had the unilateral right to give themselves away in a new marriage, although it was considered good form to consult with the clan. 
> 
> **Giving thralls freedom** – Thralls could under fortunate circumstances manage to buy themselves free, or could on rare occasions be given freedom by their masters. Such events by Norse law required considerable legal process and ceremony. The Norse sagas have some (few) examples of women who were given freedom after mothering the son of a king or a wealthy man. The practice probably became more frequent after AD 1,000; but at the time of this story it was a rare exception, and not something that most thrall owners would ever consider. The rigid class system, the cheap thrall labor and the strong belief in every person’s fate being preordained contributed to this situation. 
> 
> **Kill the thrall to keep him silent** – Some Norse sagas mention such practices. For instance, one of the Norse kings’ sagas contain the tale of a man who breaks into a barrow to get hold of certain buried heirlooms. He brings along a thrall to do the digging for him, and immediately afterwards kills the poor thrall to keep him from talking.


	13. Chapter 13

The group of men returning from Einstad arrived home at the farm just in time for the evening meal. The two freemen went to their places on one of the benches in the hall, Eoin had no other choice than to return to the thrall’s house after having unloaded the packhorse, and Einnis and Ketil found their places by the High Seat.  
   
There was no sign of Sigrid. All the activities in preparation for the approaching wedding meant she never had a moment’s rest. That evening she was off visiting on a neighboring farm to make arrangements for wedding guests to stay over there.  
   
After they’d sat through a subdued meal, Ketil sent for the bathhouse fires to be lit, and for one of the men who knew the use of the razor knife and scissors to attend to them there.  
   
“We need to look our very best tomorrow, clean and groomed and well dressed. You look like a wild man of the woods, Einnis. It could hardly be otherwise, I know, but that’ll have to change, and quickly. Tomorrow’s an important day!”  
   
Einnis had no reply, and as soon as he could, he left the table with a bowl of ale.  
   
Tradition required him to greet the ancestors after a long time away from the farm. He sought the solitude this offered him and left the noisy hall for the barrows outside the main gate. Generations of important clan members had been buried in the grassy mounds so as to ensure they continued to care for the clan and to bring the farm luck even in death.  
   
Einnis slowly walked to the largest barrow, where his original clan ancestor had been buried long ago, according to tradition. The tales had it that he on occasion would rise at night and ride from his resting place, fully armed, as a sign that the clan was in danger. It was long now since anyone had claimed seeing him ride under the moon, and everything was quiet tonight in the deepening shadows.  
   
A few brave yellow coltsfoot flowers were nodding to Einnis from the side of the mound, greeting spring from amid the dried brown grasses of last year.  
   
Einnis stood in the front of the grassy barrow for a while, looking slowly back and forth between it and the farm. His clan had lived here for many years, each generation defending, improving and adding to the farm before being laid to rest outside its gates with all due honor. He himself was named for the clan ancestor, Einnis Everwake the Old.  
   
With a sigh he placed the bowl reverently at the bottom of the barrow for its occupant to enjoy, bent his head in respect, and walked with heavy steps back to the farm.  
   
He followed Ketil to the bathhouse as soon as it was ready for them. The scathing steam loosened their muscles and had them gasping while sweat and dirt poured from every pore.  
   
Ketil didn’t make any more attempts at jocularity, but kept quiet and sat with eyes closed in the billowing steam.  
   
Einnis had his hair washed and cut and his beard and mustache neatly trimmed, and made the bathhouse thrall gave him a long and thorough rub-down as well. After the bath he drank several scoops of water and some ale, a new man in looks and smell, but not in heart and mind.  
   
He told Ketil they would have to make the necessary plans the next day, as he was weary. This was evidently no lie; he was stumbling on his feet when he sought his boxed-in bed and closed its door between himself and the rest of the world.  
 

\- x - 

   
The brothers and two of Ketil’s men left the farm at midday the next day, riding stately horses and dressed in their best finery. Both wore expensive tunics of foreign cloth, richly decorated, and blue cloaks with costly jeweled clasps on the right shoulder. The brothers’ helmets shone, and their swords and belts as well as the horses’ tackle glittered when an occasional glint of sun peeked through the shifting clouds. Ketil looked eager and alert with a becoming blush to his face, but Einnis had dark circles under his eyes and was unusually pale, even for the season.  
   
They had talked on the morning, going over what Einnis would say and how he would present Ketil’s achievements and talents, as well as the clan’s position. Ketil had been much encouraged by the talk, happy that the fortunes and fame of their clan were already on the rise. Helga could hardly fail to realize that.  
   
Once she had been notified about her visitors, Helga Hauksdottir herself came out to greet them and bid them welcome. She led them to the table by the high seat, and sat down to talk while her serving women put forth mead in beakers, thin fine slices of bread baked with wheat, tidbits of roast grouse and a selection of carved dried meat served in handsomely decorated bowls.  
   
Helga Hauksdottir was not tall, but carried herself with considerable composure. She had a generous smile and an equally generous bosom, and sharp eyes full of life. Her blond hair was covered by a silk-shot linen wife’s coif, but she let hair show over her forehead and at her neck. She wore several strands of big amber beads and an impressive number of keys over a dress that looked uncommonly fine for everyday wear.  
   
Confident and self-assured, she nevertheless had an easy manner, and the conversation between her and Ketil flowed freely over the mead beakers. They had already met some few times during the winter months whenever gatherings were arranged on farms in the valley, and so had established some common ground.  
   
Talk turned to Ketil’s adventures abroad, and Helga seemed to enjoy herself and asked many interested questions about the foreign lands, peoples and customs.  
   
In this way they remained at table for a long time, Ketil and Helga talking animatedly, and Einnis on occasion inserting a brief comment or two. The mead in the beakers was replenished more than once.  
   
Eventually Helga looked out over her hall, where thralls were now preparing the tables for the household’s next meal, and sighed. “My husband traveled for many years, far away both east and west in viking, before we married. He too told me many tales of the places he’d seen. I longed to see those places, Kiev and Dublin and Miklagard – but we never traveled further together than to the fair at Brännö, once.” She frowned, her eyes going distant for a moment. “He traveled for long spells to Novgorod twice after we married, too – leaving the rule of the farm and all his properties to me the while.”  
   
Looking up with a slightly twisted smile, she was firmly back in the here and now.  “But that proves unexpectedly useful, since I am a widow now and have to fend for myself and to manage my properties and those of my daughter on my own. I am glad of the experience I’ve had in handling my own affairs.” She shook her head. “To think, after all his travels and raids, it was his fate to be killed facing enemies on his own farm’s threshold! I miss him. It gets lonely, being on my own.”  
   
Ketil did not miss this obvious invitation to get to the point of their visit. “Not for long should you have to sit lonely and husbandless, Helga,” he said, and nodded to Einnis, then nudged his leg under the table when his brother remained silent.   
   
Einnis appeared to be coming out of a trance, quickly collected himself, and launched into the agreed-upon proposal of marriage. Helga sat with demurely lowered eyes while she listened to his words, but she nevertheless spoke up to ask very astute questions whenever there was a point she wanted to understand better or hear more about. Ketil several times jumped in to answer such queries himself, clearly chafing at not being able to speak directly with her at this most important juncture in his life and hers.  
   
Einnis did as custom demanded, though, and outlined Ketil’s achievements and possessions. He praised his brother’s good qualities, and also described the clan connections in detail, including those of Arna Mjodsdottir and Torgeirr Haraldson. Helga knew Mjod and his daughters from before, and nodded in approval of Einnis’s wife-to-be, but she didn’t know Torgeirr, and wanted to know more. She seemed pleased with the responses she got, and smiled at them both. Eventually, Einnis concluded by formally asking for her hand on Ketil’s behalf.  
   
Helga sat for a moment in silence, studying her own hands that were resting calmly in her lap, and then looked Ketil straight in the eyes, her face unreadable as she responded.  
   
“I am most honored by this proposal, Ketil Elmarson, and I think it is suitable in many ways. But I am just a woman alone in the world, and I would hardly want to make such an important decision without first consulting closely with my kin and clan. I cannot therefore today give you my yes or my no, but I will respond in due course.”  
   
With that she rose from the table, and they had no choice but to do the same. Ketil bit his lip and bristled, struggling to keep silent and to remain polite.  
   
Helga followed them to the door, and gave Ketil her hand. “We will talk again,” she said evenly in goodbye and smiled at him. “We will meet at your sister’s wedding.”  She took her leave of Einnis as well, and then the brothers were outside just as dusk settled over the farm, the first tentative bird song of spring rising in the air above them.  
   
They had their horses brought and rode homewards in the deepening dusk, some distance in front of their men to ensure they could talk freely. Ketil was furious. “Consult with her kin!” he blurted. “Horsepiss! She’s waiting to for the next bidders to enter the game, that’s what! She’s hoping to see the stakes increase, is setting herself up as a prize! Here I thought we were getting on nicely, and then she sends me packing like a common, unwanted, beggarly nobody! By Thor, you’d think I was thrall-born!”  
   
Einnis sighed. “Don’t take on so, Ketil, don’t let all that mead you had speak for you. This went as well as could possibly be expected. It’s not surprising that she needs time to think, this is one of the most important decisions she’ll be making in life!” He looked to his brother and spoke in low, soothing tones. “I could easily see that you two get on and are suited for each other, - even if she wants to wait for other offers, I’m sure that will speak in your favor in the end!”  
   
Ketil swung at him angrily. “You could see! You could see? You seemed to be sleeping! Where were you? You sat there like you were bored out of your mind, dozing at the table, she must have thought it most insulting! Tor be thanked that you can boast of Mjod as your future father-in-law, or else you would not be of much use at all!” He snorted. “Imagine if any unflattering rumor about you had reached her ears – you know what I mean – then it would have been all over for me!”  
   
Einnis’s eyes flared for a moment, but he shrugged and rode on, not bothering to reply. Ketil rode next to him for a while, silently fuming, and then kicked his horse into a gallop. He left Einnis and their men behind, riding home at break-neck pace.

\- x - 

When Einnis arrived home, he saw Ketil leave the high table, carrying an ale bowl and looking reasonably composed, though still with a murderous look in his eyes.  
   
Einnis dropped down near the high seat himself, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. He sat like that while the hall filled with people for the evening meal. The buzz of voices was loud and grating compared to the peaceful quiet at Einstad. He didn’t open his eyes again before Sigrid sat down next to him, her coif askew and her keys jangling as she fanned herself with her hand.  
   
Keeping the household in good shape while preparing for a big wedding and overseeing the packing of all her goods and gear was keeping Sigrid busy from before sunup till after dusk. She hurried between the hall, the storage houses, the kitchen and sheds, giving orders, overseeing work, checking on the stores, planning ahead, making decisions and arrangements on everything from what to serve at the next evening meal to what and how to feed the many wedding guests in abundant style in the middle of spring dearth, normally the leanest time of year.  
   
Luckily she had long since been able to make her dowry ready, weaving and spinning year after year following her parents’ untimely death, and did not have to worry about completing it at the last minute.  
   
“Now, how did it go?” she asked, clapping her hands for the servants to start serving the evening meal, and taking a long draught of the high table’s ale bowl. “Not well, I take it?”  
   
Ennis shook his head. “I think it did go well. Helga was cheerful, and they talked much and friendly, but in the end she said she needs time to think about it. Ketil thinks she’s hoping for someone better to come along. He may be right, but who can blame her for wanting to consider her options? And who can say she won’t choose him in the end?”  
   
Sigrid huffed. “He came home looking as if he had the wild hunt on his heels, so here I was, certain she’d sent him packing with a flea in his ear!”  
   
Einnis lifted his knife and stabbed at the slivers of dried meat in the bowl in front of him. “He’ll just have to wait and see,” he said bleakly. “Though his chances will be poorer if news of his anger at her first response reaches her, I’m sure.”   
   
“Ketil has always been rash, and he’s always had a temper too easily provoked, Sigrid said. “He won’t change this late in life, I think. He’s very different from you, Einnis – you always think before you act, even when you feel passionately about something. You always do what’s right.”  
   
Einnis closed his eyes again. “What if I did something that wasn’t right, once? What if I did something that shamed and harmed the clan? What would you say then, and Torgeirr? Would he still marry you?”  
   
Sigrid laughed. “All the arrangements have been made and all oaths long since sworn! We’re getting married in less than two weeks, Einnis. I hardly think you can manage many horridly shameful acts in that brief time!”  
   
She noticed his look, and turned serious, staring at him with concern. “Are you in earnest? What would be the trouble, brother mine? Has something happened? It can’t be that bad, surely? You’ve always had the clan’s best interest at heart, and you’ve always acted calmly, wisely, and with honor. It makes me proud, and Arna too, I’m sure. And I know Torgeirr feels the same. He values your friendship very much.”  
   
Einnis laughed, a mirthless shrill chuckle. “Wisely and with honor! Yes I have, haven’t I? Arna will be proud, and Torgeirr is my friend, and my sister trusts me, and my brother needs me, and the clan rests on my shoulders, and my duty and the laws of gods and men are clear as day…... Yes, look at my honor now!” he spat out, his words like a flurry of angry hailstones across the table.  
   
Sigrid leaned forward, placing a hand on his arm and looking worriedly into his face. “Tell me what’s bothering you, brother. You don’t look well, Einnis. Are you ill?”  
   
“No,” he muttered, rising from his seat abruptly and stepping around the table to get to the other side and to leave the hall. “Nothing….don’t worry…. I just need some fresh air…. “  
   
With that he dropped in his tracks as if struck down by lightning.  
   
Sigrid rose from her seat and rushed round the table to his side, even as everyone else in the hall stared in their direction, many rising from their meal to get a better view. The buzz of voices intensified.  
   
“Einnis!” She shook him by the shoulders, rapidly checked his heart beat and his breath, felt his forehead and pulled his eyelids up to look into his eyes. They had rolled back in his head. He was out cold, but he was alive and breathing. She crouched next to him for a moment, her head bent, holding his hand.  
   
Then she rose to her feet and clapped her hands sharply. “My brother is alive, but needs rest. Please finish up your meals quickly and leave!”  
   
Einnis’s eyes fluttered open even as he was being carried to his bed, and Sigrid had to restrain him when he made as if to get up on his legs. Soon he was laid out comfortably on his own boxed-in bed, its doors flung wide open to allow access. Several of her women hovering nervously in the background, Sigrid made him move his arms and legs and flex his fingers, felt his abdomen and listened to his chest, and then placed several blankets over him carefully.  
   
“I find nothing wrong, thanks be to Freya!” She sat down at his side, and took his hand, fighting tears.  
   
“Einnis Eldhug, what is it?” she asked tenderly. “Is something wrong? Are you in pain? Tell me, little brother.”  
   
His reply was clear and distinct even though it came in a weak and tired voice. “No, Sigrid. Nothing is wrong. I am sorry to have frightened you so. I’m merely exhausted from all the heavy work at Einstad. I must have been wearier than I knew, and I haven’t been able to sleep much. I just need a little rest, and I’ll be right as rain.”  
   
His hand rose weakly to pat one of hers briefly. “I’ll be there at your wedding, and it will be a happy day, never fear!”  
   
With that he actually seemed to fall into deep sleep, and after some time Sigrid set one of her women to look after him and went back to managing her many tasks and responsibilities. She looked in on her brother at regular intervals, a worried crease never leaving her forehead all the while.  
 

\- x - 

   
Einnis Elmarson lay abed and seemed to be sleeping continuously for nearly three days. Sigrid had healing runes carved into a wooden stick that was placed in his bed, and kept him warm with heated stones. Under her watchful eyes he did manage to down some of the meat broth that she had prepared especially for him, and drink her medicinal herbal potions as well as some water. Most of the time he lay silent and still with his face turned to the wall and the doors to his bed closed. It was as if he was withdrawing from the world, a bear retreating to the safety of its hibernation den once too many hunters were on its tail.  
   
Ketil had no useful information to give his sister. He spoke but little and kept away from his brother’s bedside, though she could see he was genuinely worried for Einnis’s health, and knew he had visited the barrow with an offering in his brother’s honor.  
   
Sigrid Elmarsdottir didn’t know what to make of it all, but then at this point in time she barely had a minute’s free time to think, anyhow, and neither did anyone else. That was a good thing, she realized: if not for the frantic activity all over the farm to get ready for the wedding, people would have had time to worry about the displeasure of the gods, and to fire each other up with speculation about the possible reasons for Einnis’s illness. She herself instinctively felt that the answer, whatever it was, likely did not involve the gods and powers but would be found among humans down on earth.  
   
On the fourth day Einnis rose from his bed. Pale and hollow-eyed he sat on the bench with his bare feet on the tiled floor and a small chest of his most valuable possessions on his lap. It was normally stored safely in the inner closet at the foot end of his bed.  
   
He stared down into it, looked at the gold and silver, the coins and gems it contained. Riches meant to ensure Einstad got to a solid start as a viable and prosperous farm with all the cattle and livestock, household goods and thralls that were needed for the farm to thrive. Shunting the valuables on top aside, his hand found what he was seeking, hidden at the bottom of the little chest – he’d once thought it would surely be the most beautiful prize he’d bring home from his Irish raiding. He stared at the exquisite and costly object in his hand with sad eyes for a long time, turning it this way and that, all the while looking as a mourner at the side of a fresh grave mound.  
   
Eventually he put his box of riches safely back in its place, locked it down, and rose to take his place in the daily activities of the farm. The first wedding guests would be arriving within the next day or so. His presence was needed, and he would do as his duty bid him.  
 

\- x - 

   
   
Eoin had soon heard the news of Einnis Elmarson’s collapse, since the master’s strange and sudden illness had been all that everyone could speak of in the little time allotted them for talking. Malevolent forces once more seemed to be at work when one so young and healthy could be stricken down so suddenly.  
   
The other thralls turned to Eoin with a mixture of fearful skepticism and intense curiosity. He had been close to Einnis for months, alone with him up at that other farm site – had he seen anything to explain this? Any signs of ill luck or portents of doom? Any indications that the powers were displeased with the young master?  
   
When Eoin had no answers and tried to avoid the topic altogether, indeed hardly seemed to want to talk to them about anything at all, they withdrew and left him alone. They were all of them Norse, quite a few of them Danes, but many had been born in the valley and had never traveled far. Their glances turned worried and frightened, and their doubts over Eoin’s foreign god and strange behavior and practices rekindled. Perhaps he had caused Einnis Elmarson’s illness. They’d better keep their distance.  
   
But as yet no-one dared act upon those fears, and Eoin himself was too preoccupied to even notice the whispers.  
   
The wedding preparations kept him busy like never before. Even the work at Einstad had been nothing, compared to this. Together with the other male thralls he chopped veritable mountains of firewood, hauled endless buckets of water, and brought hay from the out-barns. He had no time at all to himself, except for the nighttime hours, and the physical labor tired him out so that despite all worries and threatening despair he found rest, the deep sleep of the exhausted.  
   
He had wanted to pray for enlightenment as to Einnis’s illness, had wanted to turn on his knees to God’s holy mother and all benevolent saints to humbly beseech them to help Einnis back to life and health, but he found no place for silent prayer, and little time. A brief and fervent prayer at morning and at night would have to do. He’d have to trust that the Lord and his angels would see the prayer written on his heart, even if he didn’t speak it out loud.  
   
The veritable buzz of relief that spread like wildfire at the news of Einnis’s recovery was to Eoin like a ray of sun that pierces the thunderstorm’s heavy gloom. It filled him with sudden joy. He had to sneak away from his place to peek into the main hall during the midday meal - he had to see for himself.  
   
And there was Einnis, sitting at the high table, looking pale and worn and weary, but calm and together – and he was eating, seemingly with good appetite. Eoin returned to his own frugal meal in the thralls’ house, all of a sudden walking as lightly as if his feet had grown wings.  
   
He didn’t know what had happened, and on this overcrowded farm where people were thronging every corner to the rafters and wedding guests would soon be pouring in from many parts of the district, there would be no chance to talk to Einnis alone and unseen.  
   
But Einnis’s recovery gave Eoin the reassurance he needed. God was not angry with them, was not out to punish either one, still protected them and held them in His powerful hands. Once the wedding was over they would return to Einstad’s large empty spaces with only a few other men about. They could talk then.  
   
His life had taught him patience. He could wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Barrows** : High-standing members of the clans (of both genders) were buried with many grave goods such as swords, ships, horses, and thralls in a big barrow. Unless they died far from home they would be buried near their clan’s chief seat, in order to continue to bring it luck. Offerings were habitually made to the occupants of the barrows, and several sagas and Norse poems have tales concerning how these dead ones in the barrows do not rest quietly but rise for various reasons, normally to interfere with the clan activities. One such tale can be found in perhaps the most well-known Icelandic clan saga of all, Njal’s Saga. Another saga tells how one particular minor Norwegian king was deemed so lucky in life that several parties wanted to have him (and his luck) buried next to their place after his death. The pragmatic solution suggested was to cut the dead body in four pieces to be buried one at each location!  
> At this juncture I might mention that the single most beautiful object to have been interred in a Viking barrow to be restored to us 1,000 years later is the Oseberg ship, interred in the burial mound of a queen in AD 934, and excavated in AD 1904.  
> People who weren’t interred in this particular way were burned before burial, and if they were rich they would have a lot of grave goods with them on the pyre. 
> 
> **Bread baked with wheat** : Wheat was a luxury grain. Only the very rich could afford it, and only on highdays. Nobody used it for everyday eating. 
> 
> **Brännö** : An island in the Swedish Göteborg archipelago, strategically placed for seafarers in Viking times, and the location of important tings and fairs at the time. 
> 
> **Runes** : The Norse alphabet, but each sign and letter was also imbued with specific magical powers, some to harm and some to heal.


	14. Chapter 14

The morning of the wedding between Sigrid Elmarsdottir and Torgeirr Haraldson dawned bright and clear. Spring by now held the valley in its firm but gentle grip. Green shoots and catkins were appearing in every field and thicket, the copses along the fields had bright tapestries of wood anemones and primroses on display, and bird song trilled through the air from dawn till well after dusk. Starlings and tits were already preparing for a busy season of nesting and raising their young. 

Three days before the wedding Sigrid had surrendered her keys and the farm mistress dignity to Torgeirr’s aunt Ragnhild, who had recently been widowed but was still a strong and capable woman, and with a notoriously sharp tongue. She’d many years been the mistress of a large farm to the south and knew how to deal with servants and thralls, and how to plan for and oversee the workings of a large household. Ragnhild would be staying on after Sigrid had left, and the intention was that she’d function as mistress till Ketil brought home a wife.  
   
On the wedding day throngs of revelers gathered in the hall for the morning meal. Guests living or staying on the neighboring farms would eat where they’d spent the night, before arriving at the farm for the ceremony, the blot and the wedding feast. Even so, the crowd in the hall was impressive, and the good cheer rose rafter high long before the ceremony could begin.  
   
At midday the bride and groom and their clan and kinsfolk, friends and guests from near and far, set out from the farm in procession. Torgeirr and Sigrid rode in front, dressed in their richest outfits. The sleeves and long train of Sigrid’s linen under-dress and her costly bridal veil shot through with gold threads shimmered in the sunlight, and her silk overdress mimicked the very sky in its bright nuances of blue and violet. Draped across her chest were several strands of precious stones, amber beads and jewels secured to her large, domed shoulder-brooches, - riches enough to make any mountain dwarf envious. Torgeirr was hardly less sumptuously attired, and thralls and servants from the farms along the way who lined the road clapped their hands and shouted in admiration and awe as the couple rode by, wishing them luck and long life in their marriage.  
   
Einnis and Ketil rode directly behind the bride and groom, together with Torgeirr’s brother and sister, and Olaf Haka. Behind them followed many distant family members, and all other wedding guests according to rank and clan. Most had already sampled the mead and ale, and were in high spirits as the procession made its way towards Freya’s sacred stone circle. It would have been too long a ride for everyone to travel all the way to the local hov and back in one day, and so the wedding would instead take place outside at the closest horg.  
   
Einnis alone seemed pensive and withdrawn amidst the cheerful company, though he smiled reassuringly when Sigrid looked back at him, a slight worried frown marring her veiled face for a moment. He wore his blue cloak with its golden clasp and Holmhogg at his side – Ketil’s valuable gift was certainly fitting for this occasion.  
   
A good hour’s ride down through the valley was an ancient sacred place, a wide circle of stones on a small hillock within a circle of oaks and aspen. Next to it a small wooden shrine had been built, its every gable adorned with intricately carved dragon heads, and containing the likeness of Freya herself as well as other objects needed for ceremonies in the goddess’s honor.  
   
The husband and wife-to-be stepped up to the stones and entered the circle, while all the wedding guests gathered round its perimeter. The gydja responsible for the horg shook her large silver and iron rattle to notify the goddess of their presence, and thereafter opened the shrine doors wide so that Freya could watch over the marriage rite. Freya’s magnificent golden necklace, the Brisingamen, could be seen glittering in the shrine’s gloom like the stars shine in the night sky.  
   
As had been pre-arranged, two men and two women solemnly collected four long poles with carved dragon heads from Freya’s abode. They took up position just outside the circle, one each facing north, south, east and west, and planted the poles in the ground. The dragonheads’ maws yawned threateningly and the carved eyes glared fiercely outwards and skywards. On this day it was imperative that all malevolent forces be kept at bay. The carved dragon likenesses, the runes carved on the long stakes and their combined magical powers would see to that.  
   
The gydja offered the bride and groom a drink of mead from a fine silver cup adorned with runes of power, and spoke the incantations to the goddess in a strong ringing voice. Then the sacred golden ring from the valley hov was brought forth for the couple to swear their vows on. No marriage would be legal without ring-oaths properly sworn in front of witnesses. The hov’s godi was among the wedding guests and had brought the heavy ring with him from its customary place in the hov’s inner sanctum.  
   
“… and to this I swear, so help me Frey, and Njord, and the most powerful of gods....” Both Torgeirr and Sigrid made their vows to each other and the gods in clear, unwavering voices. They toasted each other from the silver cup, and then turned to also toast and honor the goddess in her abode, and to speak the ancient ceremonial wedding prayer, one verse for Torgeirr, the next for Sigrid:  
 

_Hail to you, day!_  
 _Hail, sons of day!_  
 _Hail night and night’s daughter now!_  
 _Look to us two_  
 _With loving eyes_  
 _And grant that we victory win!_  
   
 _Hail to the gods!_  
 _You goddesses, hail,_  
 _And all the generous earth!_  
 _Give to us wisdom_  
 _and goodly speech,_  
 _And healing hands all life long!_

   
With that, Torgeirr left the circle and went through the throng of people to where the sacrificial animal was standing ready, a small horse patiently waiting for a fate it couldn’t have seen coming on this bright spring day.  
   
Torgeirr wielded the long blot-knife with such care and precision that he did not get the least little crimson splatter on his cloak or tunic. Most of the blood he let drain into the ground as an offering to Frey and Freya both, the earth and grass he stood on representing the deities’ joint forces of fertility and renewal, but a small bowl of fresh blood he brought back with him into the circle. The gydja carefully accepted it from his hands and turned towards the goddess in her shrine, hailing her power, muttering imprecations and smearing the blood around the statue’s base with a little brush kept there for that very purpose.  
   
The godi next took over the bowl, and pondered the blood patterns and their significance, mulling over the crimson-stained silver vessel and its message. He looked up at Torgeirr and smiled. “I see only sons for you!” The wedding guests cheered. The stately godi turned from the couple to look out over the assembled crowd, and pronounced in a loud and carrying voice that he saw no ill omens, and that all the signs for the marriage were good.  
   
With that the ceremony was over, and Torgeirr and Sigrid walked hand in hand out of the circle, Sigrid now with her face visible for all to see. They were thoroughly cheered, congratulated and embraced by eager and joyous family members and friends. Einnis held his sister very tight for a moment, and looked closely at her calm but glowing face surrounded by the shimmering veil. “A happy day, as I promised you it would be, sister mine. May it bring you and Torgeirr nothing but future joy and prosperity, and long lives, the gods willing!”  
   
She hugged him back fiercely. “Oh Einnis, Einnis, I only wish from the bottom of my heart that the joy I feel today will soon also find you!”  
   
Back at the farm the tables groaned under the weight of the wedding food. Nothing had been spared in order to make it a memorable occasion. There was fat pork and red beef, dishes of reindeer and moose, dainty pieces of roast chicken and forest fowl to be nibbled, nuts and dried berries, fine bread and butter and many rich cheeses made with herbs, and every drinking bowl was overflowing with good ale and expensive mead. The newly wedded couple and their close kin were also served horse meat from the wedding blot, as soon as it was cooked and ready.  
   
Fires blazed on every hearth, and torches glowed along the walls. As the evening wore on, the heat in the crowded hall became nearly unbearable, and there was a constant rush as people moved around, going out for a spell in order to cool themselves down and to let the food sink, as the saying was, before they returned to have some more; much more.  
   
Laughter and loud talk and ribald jokes rang out from every side, mingling with the music in the yard, and creating an unbelievable din.  
   
Every servant and all the thralls were busy as bees carrying trays and platters, lugging ale for the hall and water and firewood for the kitchen, helping out over the cooking pits, and cleaning up after those wedding guests who had enjoyed too much of the ale too soon.  
   
Today the fine food also was the thralls’ to enjoy, and the rich meats and fine cheeses settled pleasingly in their unusually full stomachs.  
   
Eoin helped carry trays of food into the hall with the rest, but kept himself away from the high table, where the thralls had no business being even on this happy day. He stopped by the door for a moment and looked towards the high seat across the crowded hall, briefly studying the bride and groom before letting his glance slide quickly past Ketil at the bride’s left side to Einnis, who sat next. Einnis looked pale, and somehow distracted, but he smiled at his sister and her husband and toasted them with his mead horn even as Eoin watched. Reassured, Eoin returned to his work in the kitchen and his own platter of beef and bowl of ale.  
   
The feast stretched out in time, hours went by, and at long last the time had come for the bride and groom to be accompanied by their close kinsfolk to the room that was ready and waiting for them. A small fire blazed on the hearth there, the bed had been beautifully made with down pillows and fine coverlets, and the walls were covered with tapestries.  
   
By this hour most of the men were extremely drunk, and the explicit suggestions and indecent well-wishes they shouted out left nothing at all to the imagination. Sigrid hurried through the door as quickly as she could, while Torgeirr had to stay on the outside for a little while, being thumped on his back to within an inch of his life, and suffering a veritable barrage of suggestive jokes and advice for his first time as a wedded man.  
   
Eventually the door was closed behind the two, and firmly barred, and the guests returned to the hall to continue their feasting.  
   
Einnis however excused himself and went out of the hall. He had kept his promise: Sigrid and Torgeirr had been married according to agreement and tradition, surrounded by clan and kin, and no whiff of grief or grudge or gossip had marred their happy day.  
   
As he made his way to the door he noted Ketil standing to the side, by now decidedly unsteady on his feet, and talking animatedly to a prettily flushed Helga Hauksdottir. Einnis greeted her with a nod in passing, and she responded in kind. Helga was laughing at something, her eyes bright in the torchlight. Her hair was coming down under her fine foreign coif, but then at this stage in the evening it would be difficult to find anyone who wasn’t a little disheveled, unless they were ill after overindulging, in which case they looked far much the worse for wear.  
   
Einnis himself had drunk but little and had not had very much to eat. Perhaps for that very reason the heat in the hall and the noise level had become increasingly difficult to endure. He walked slowly across the brightly lit courtyard, studying the lively activities all around the farm.  
   
Thralls were scuttling back and forth, people stood cooling off and talking in the fresh air, and a few servants’ children were running around long after bedtime, shouting shrilly and teasing the farm dogs with tempting meaty bones. Guests who had been dancing ring-dances in the yard had instead formed a long link of dancers, weaving in and out of the yard and around the hall, singing loudly to keep their frequently stumbling steps in time.  
   
As luck would have it, no fights or brawls seemed to be brewing. Sometimes at feasts like this, when drink had removed most inhibitions, ill words would be spoken, grudges rekindled, and swords too quickly drawn – it was a common saying that no proper wedding feast would end before it had one or more casualties to show for itself.  
   
Drawing deep, calming breaths Einnis walked between two of the sheds at the far end of the yard, stepping silently out to the darkness beyond. The wedding revels were still very audible - they could probably be heard for miles around - but here in the shadows the chill of the late spring night nevertheless held a soothing quality. Not only Einnis seemed to be craving the night’s solitude, though. To one side of him he could distinctly hear someone cursing and retching noisily, and to the other a woman was laughingly deterring an unseen suitor’s drunken advances.  
   
Ignoring them all, Einnis leaned back against the wooden wall and stared up to the night skies. The stars were bright; the eyes of gods and giants twinkling in the vast darkness. He closed his eyes after a little while and stood as motionless as any carved statue in a hov. There would be no other rest for him for many hours yet. The halls were filled with people who had no intention of letting the revels cease till the morning hours, and as one of the hosts he would have to be there.  
   
Yet he remained standing in the darkness, alone and invisible, for a very long time. 

\- x - 

The wedding lasted for three full days, as custom and tradition demanded. By then the farm’s storage sheds were completely depleted and every guest sated and weary. Now all who could made haste to depart. Spring had advanced to the stage where proper work should commence in the fields - carting out the manure, ploughing and sowing. All hands would be needed on every farm, from the lowliest thrall to the master’s own kin. Whatever a man’s plans for the summer months, be it raiding or trading or going to the fairs and tings, late spring was a time when no farm’s master could afford to rest or to stay away from his home.  
   
For this reason Torgeirr and Sigrid and their retinue also intended to leave as soon as the wedding guests had been sent off with thanks and blessings and well-wishes. The last evening of their stay at the farm Sigrid went to oversee the packing of the finer items of her dowry, clothes and jewelry, while Torgeirr sat down with his brothers-in-law over a final bowl of ale, stretching his legs tiredly out in front of himself and yawning.  
   
“What frantic few days these have been! I’m exhausted! No sleep nor rest either night or day – every man should hope and pray to marry only once in his life, or he would be permanently worn out from revelries and feasting! Little joy would the poor bride have of him then!” His bright smile and the glint in his eyes left no doubt that his bride had had much joy of him already, and he of her. It was easy for all to see that Sigrid and Torgeirr appeared to enjoy each other’s company even better now that they were also sharing a bed.  
   
Neither Einnis nor Ketil could find many words to say on the topic of married bliss, though, and the talk at the table therefore turned to mundane matters and some last-minute business transactions the in-laws were arranging.  
   
Torgeirr had mentioned that he would soon be visiting Kaupang to see to his clan’s house and to plan for his own future trade activities there, so the brothers took the opportunity of agreeing that he would trade a little on their behalf. He would be taking various pelts from game felled during the winter with him southwards for the market, and would buy salt and spices and some fine foreign foodstuffs for them to be sent back north as soon as he found transport.  
   
“Now I guess there is only one thing left to settle, your purchase of my Irish thrall,” Einnis said tiredly at last.  
   
Ketil righted himself in his seat, his hooded eyes turning sharp like a hawk’s.  
   
Torgeirr leaned back, shrugged and smiled. “Do you still want to sell him then? You’ve not changed your mind? I’ve heard he’s served you more than faithfully and true at Einstad over the winter months. If this is a greater loss than you could reckon with during yule.... ”  
   
“My mind is made up,” Einnis said firmly in a low voice, looking down into his beaker and abruptly draining it. “Here in this backwards valley he stands out too much as a stranger, and he and his god keep getting blamed whenever something goes wrong, yes, even the smallest incidents. He isn’t safe here, and a dead thrall would be of no worth to any.”

Einnis glanced at Ketil, then looked Torgeirr straight in the eye. “Your plans will take him back to where there are more people, people who are used to Irishmen and thralls and traders from many lands, and know that in what counts, they are like any men. He’ll be safer there. Our agreement stands.”  
   
He smiled, a mere grimace stretching his lips. “Jaran is strong, and loyal, and does more than many a fit man’s work. I think the full price should apply.”  
   
Torgeirr turned serious in his turn, sensing his brother-in-law’s strange mood. “Well, of course I’ll pay the full price! This purchase fits my plans perfectly, as you know,” he said in some confusion. “I’ll be more than happy to have him with me for good, and so will… uhm….well, someone else,” he ended sheepishly.  
   
Ketil cleared his throat and gulped down some ale. He kept his peace.  
   
Without hesitation Torgeirr now loosened the leather pouch hanging from his belt, and carefully counted the appropriate pieces of silver, one by one, into Einnis’s hand.  
   
“That should be it. Do you want to take your scales out to weigh it?” he asked, tying the pouch back up.  
   
Einnis put aside the silver with a hand that shook slightly. “That won’t be necessary, Torgeirr. I know I can trust you to behave generously and with honor in all matters.”  
   
The brothers-in-law shook hands on their deal, and in this manner Jaran the Irish thrall became Torgeirr Haraldson’s property in front of many witnesses, though he himself was still not aware of his altered circumstances.  
 

\- x - 

   
The next day Einnis was up very early, while most of the farm still slept. The chill misty air in the courtyard swirled before him like uneasy spirits disturbed by his approach, their damp fingers stroking his cold cheeks and clinging to his blue cloak. He walked with slow and heavy steps over to the thrall’s house and asked one of the men outside to go get Jaran the Irish.  
   
Eoin appeared moments later, his face mussed from sleep but his eyes bright and eager. Einnis motioned for him to follow, and wordlessly they walked out of earshot, but not out of sight, of the few thralls and servants moving about in the chill morning hours.  
   
Einnis turned to face Eoin, his eyes skittering right past the thrall’s face to settle on some object in the distance.  
   
“I… I am glad that you seem well,” he began, restlessly shifting his weight from one leg to the other.   
   
“Much gladder am I to see you looking well,” Eoin responded. “I’ve been worried about you. Einnis….”  
   
He made as if to step closer, but Einnis took a step back and lifted a hand in warning.  
   
“I am well, Eoin,” he said, glancing at Eoin’s face for a moment before letting his eyes drop to the ground. “I have come to tell you to pack your belongings, such as they are, and to prepare yourself to leave from here today.”  
   
Eoin beamed, though he tried to appear calm. “We’re leaving already? I am glad! I’ve been longing to return to Einstad. This place is too crowded. There is no-where we can…”  
   
Einnis bit his lip and turned a new shade of pale. “You are not going back to Einstad. As you know, I’m getting married to Arna Mjodsdottir come autumn, and I have to plan for that and to behave as is proper. You are leaving with my brother-in-law.” Einnis paused for a beat and drew a breath. “I’ve sold you to him – he’s your new master, and you his thrall. From this day onwards you will obey him in all that he bids you do. He is a kind and fair man. You need have no worries.”  
   
His speech done and his orders delivered, Einnis nodded once, an abrupt jerk of the head, and made to turn on his heels as if to escape from there. But his body betrayed him, and he seemed to have difficulty moving.  
   
Eoin too had frozen where he stood, looking at Einnis with wide eyes, lips slightly apart, unable at first to comprehend what had just been said. It seemed impossible that he had really heard those words spoken.  
   
“But… I thought, I thought that now we’d …we’d….” Eoin eventually forced out, running out of breath and words before he could form a complete sentence, a slight twitch of his head in the northwards direction indicating the way to Einstad’s fields and wide open spaces. “Einnis! You can’t…. you don’t mean this. You don’t!”  
   
Einnis fidgeted, his eyes darting round the courtyard, his jaws clenching, and his lips pressing firmly shut, no words or sounds escaping.  
   
A wave of blood washed hotly over Eoin’s face. His body went tense with fury, despair and powerless incredulity. Without even realizing it, he slipped into his own language, the singing tones of the Gaelic words he ground out clearly communicating his state of mind, if not the meaning of each single word. “You really mean this, don’t you? You bastard! You … heathen….. false.... barbaric…. devious…. damned….. marauding and murdering….Norseman! “  
   
Eoin’s voice dropped to an agonized whisper. “How can you do this to us?”  
   
“There is no other way,” Einnis said hoarsely, once more glancing around the courtyard. Then his voice gained in strength, and his face set determinedly. “My mind is made up. Listen to my words, and obey, or face the consequences! Go now and pack. You’ll be leaving this place today.”  
   
He stepped backwards, one slow step, and then another, and another. His final words came out soft as a sigh. “Farewell, Eoin. Wherever your fate may take you, may both our gods watch over you with kind eyes!”  
   
With that he turned and hurried back to the hall, his steps gaining in speed and purpose as he walked. He never once looked back to see Eoin standing limply where he’d left him, slumped over as if he’d been punched in the gut, his expression not at all belligerent now, but one of hurt and stunned disbelief, his face pale and his blue eyes turning into shimmering pools of deepest, darkest desolation.

\- x - 

   
A few hours later the company of Torgeirr Haraldson and his wife left the farm and traveled southwards.  
   
Einnis had said his farewells to Sigrid privately. They’d embraced and held each other close for a long time, needing no words between them. Eventually they had stepped back, Sigrid admonishing her brother with tears in her eyes to look after himself and to not overtax his strength, and to come visit her as soon as the work at Einstad would allow. At the very last they would meet again at Einnis’s own wedding – she and Torgeirr would be at Mjod’s farm for the revels without fail. Brother and sister had talked quietly and earnestly for a little while longer, and then it had been time for Sigrid to make ready to leave. She surreptitiously made use of her new wife’s coif to dry a few stray tears as she left her brother’s side.  
   
The wedded couple’s company was large, for they had with them a goodly number of servants and men-at-arms, all those of Torgeirr’s family members who had traveled north with him, and many pack horses heavily laden with Sigrid’s dowry besides. Torgeirr’s new thrall rode last in the group, his brown cloak pulled firmly around his body, his few belongings rolled up in a tight bundle tied behind the simple saddle, and his close-cropped dark head dejectedly bent over the horse’s mane.  
   
Ketil, Einnis, Ragnhild and most of the farm’s people came out in the courtyard to send the newlyweds off and to wish them a safe journey home. Sigrid had been a fair, kind and much respected mistress for nearly six years, and Torgeirr with his easy and cheerful ways had won himself many friends during his stay.  
   
Einnis wore only his tunic out into the courtyard for these final farewells. Though it wasn’t raining there nevertheless was a distinct nip in the mid-morning air, but he had misplaced his cloak and there had been no time to have anyone search for it. He waved to his sister and brother-in-law and remained standing at the gates, staring after them as long as their company was visible, his tired eyes resting unwaveringly on the man riding at the end of the departing company. But Eoin didn’t look back as he left the farm behind and rode southwards through the valley.  
   
Einnis returned to the hall and, telling the men there that he was tired and needed rest, went straight to bed, though it wasn’t yet noon. He spent the remainder of the day behind the boxed-in bed’s doors. No-one though much of it. Everyone was tired and out of sorts after the hectic feast days, too much ale and too little sleep, or - in the case of servants and thralls – too much rich food and too much work. Such things would get even the strongest man down in the end.  
   
The following day Einnis rose early, and quietly went about his day as he’d been wont to do.  
   
He told Ketil he was planning to ride north to Einstad at once. Building the farm and getting it ready for Arna to move in would now remain the first, last and only thing on his mind.

\- x - 

   
Torgeirr and Sigrid’s company in the meantime traveled on, and they had a good time, for the weather was turning pleasant and getting warmer by the day. The mood was cheerful. The newly-weds were clearly enjoying themselves and their time together, and their happiness proved infectious so that everyone was prone to smiles and laughter at the least little opportunity.  
   
Everyone except the thrall Jaran. He seemed to be riding in a trance through awakening spring as if the powers had cast a spell of winter bleakness over him. Silent, pale and with haunted eyes he brought up the rear of the company, seemingly in a world of his own. No-one paid him much mind, though; - he was after all only a thrall, and a sad-looking one at that. He helped with the horses, and with raising camp in the evenings and taking it down in the mornings, and as long as he took orders and did his duty, everyone otherwise left him alone.  
   
Eventually they were approaching Torgeirr’s farm, Sigrid’s new home. Torgeirr spoke briefly with Eoin then, and explained to him that the thrall would be riding on to a small farmstead that Torgeirr also owned, and would be joining the household there. The place was located some way further south; a couple of Torgeirr’s free-men would be riding with him, and Torgeirr himself would follow in a few weeks’ time.  
   
Eoin listened without question or comment, his eyes lowered. He nodded in tacit acknowledgment of his orders.  
   
Just as the little party made ready to leave the main group, Sigrid Elmarsdottir came up to Eoin and told him to walk aside with her. Wordlessly he followed her some steps out of the path and in among the trees, where they would be hidden from the rest of the company. Sigrid stopped and studied the Irish thrall for a moment.  
   
“You do not look well,” she stated. “Are you ill? If so, you must let us know.”  
   
He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. “I am well enough, mistress.”  
   
He said no more, and Sigrid also remained silent for a beat, questions forming in her mind, but going unvoiced and unanswered.  
   
“This is for you,” she said at last, handing him a small package, safely wrapped in a piece of cloth tied with strings.  
   
Sigrid looked at Eoin with grave eyes. “My brother Einnis asked me to give you this, and to watch you unwrap it, on the last day that you would be in my presence before traveling onwards.”  
   
She studied the little package in his hand for a moment, her eyes returning to Eoin’s face. “I do not know what it contains. You served him well, I know. Perhaps it’s some little token of appreciation.”  
   
Eoin carefully loosened the strings and slowly unwound the cloth. He startled violently as he saw what Einnis had left him. Sigrid gasped too, her eyes going wide. Glittering on Eoin’s palm lay a golden cross, adorned with exquisite and delicate filigree scrollwork. It had a masterfully executed inlay, equally in the shape of the cross, made from perfectly cut and alternating crimson garnets and misty rock crystals. The colors of blood and tears, surrounded by richest, purest gold.  
   
It was a beautiful object, made with the highest goldsmith artistry, and was without doubt a cross worthy of a minor king.  
   
Sigrid looked up at Eoin in utter amazement at her brother’s costly gift to a mere thrall.  
   
“It is beautiful, Jaran, and very valuable,” she said. “Do you know what this means? You are holding your own freedom’s worth in your hands!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bride linen** – the fact that free Norse-women wore a (linen) veil on their wedding day is documented in various poems, including in the Poetic Edda’s “Trymskvida” where Thor himself dresses up as a bride, pretending to be Freya whom the giant Trym demands to marry in order to give Thor’s stolen hammer back to its rightful owner.  
>  Most of the wedding ceremony in this chapter of Saga however is pure conjecture on my part, as the contemporary sources do not describe the details of the ceremony. I find it reasonable that weddings would take place under the auspices of the god and goddess of fertility and sexual love, though.
> 
>  **Norse women’s clothing** : Normally an apron overdress over a longer underdress, and with a domed oval brooch at each shoulder holding the overdress shoulder straps in place. Between the two brooches there would be strings of bead necklaces as well as other jewelry.
> 
>  **Dwarves:** In Norse mythology there are many dwarves. They live inside the mountains, mine for precious metals, and are greedy yet skilled goldsmiths. One of the most well-known Norse poems, Voluspa, “the seeress’s prophecy”, contains several stanzas listing Norse dwarf names. (For those interested in delving even deeper, I dare say that anyone familiar with “the Hobbit” and “the Lord of the Rings” will see where Professor Tolkien found inspiration for his band of Dwarves (and one wizard!) if they read Voluspa’s stanzas no. 10-17.
> 
>  **Brisingamen (The Brisings’ necklace)** : Freya’s necklace is mentioned by name in a number of Norse sources including "Trymskvida" which I mentioned above. Its look is not known, but it clearly was big and finely wrought. It was made by four dwarves, the Brisings, who each wanted – and got - one night with Freya in exchange for the necklace. 
> 
> **Hov** : Norse temple
> 
>  **Godi and Gydja** : High priest and – priestess
> 
>  **Horg** – Small cultish building, intended for more private use, or also an ancient sacred place outside, often a stone heap made for cultish purpose. The exact distinction between Hov and Horg has been a sometime hotly debated topic - if you’re into archeology! :-D
> 
>  **Oath-ring / ring-oaths** : Solemn and legally binding “ring-oaths” are mentioned in various Norse poems and sagas, including in Havamal. The ring involved with the oath-swearing was not a finger-ring but considerably larger. (Bracelets and torques would also be called “rings” by the Norse.) 
> 
> **Ceremonial poles with carved dragon- or animal heads** : Five such animal head poles were discovered in the rich Oseberg barrow, buried with the queen and her ship. One of them is among the most recognizable Norwegian icons there are. The exact use of these carved animal heads cannot now be ascertained, but it’s a safe bet that they were intended for cultish/ceremonial use. They were affixed to long poles when they were recovered.
> 
>  **“Hail to you, day…etc.”** – These two translated stanzas come from the Norse Poetic Edda’s poem Sigrdrifamal. The stanzas are widely acknowledged to be the only original prayer to the Norse gods that has survived Christianization. 
> 
> **Scales** : Payments in gold and silver, even when made in coin, were always based on weight, and scales were necessary equipment for any tradesman. Jewelry frequently was cut up and used in payment in line with coins.
> 
>  **Witnesses** – When Einnis ensures that there are credible witnesses to his sale of Eoin, and that the one person Torgeirr will be certain not to doubt witnesses Eoin’s gift-opening, it is in accordance with the laws and customs of the times: Written documents were not yet used, as the magical runes were not applied for such mundane matters, and most people were illiterate anyway. Therefore the laws placed a very strong weight on the confirmation of eye-witnesses for anyone seeking to prove a case. In the case of the golden cross, without a witness Eoin had risked being taken for a thief.


	15. Chapter 15

Torgeirr Haraldson had increased his riches steadily during his adult life, partly through raiding, partly through trading, and also through inheritance. His little farmstead north of Kaupang had come to him as inheritance, and now two long-time servants, an elderly married couple named Gerd and Orm, took care of the place for him. They kept their own goats, geese and a cow there. Torgeirr himself had a large flock of sheep, and a few herders also stayed on at the farm. In the lambing and shearing season more men would be sent there to help out, but otherwise it was a peaceful little place, shaded by a couple of large spruces and with forests at the back, but  moors and open fields in front, and with the northwards trail from Kaupang passing nearby.  
   
One evening as soft spring dusk settled over the little farmstead, and the lamb-heavy ewes were lying clustered together in the field by their shed, three men came riding into the farmyard and dismounted.  
   
Gerd, in modest attire and a strict old-fashioned wife’s coif, came out to wish them welcome and ask what their errand might be.  
   
Behind her a younger woman appeared. She was also simply dressed in a brown homespun dress, and had her long brown hair tied up in a loose knot and drawn forward over one shoulder. Two small bronze shoulder brooches adorned with one lonely strand of glass beads as well as a snowy-white linen scarf nevertheless lent her an air of grace and dignity, though she was obviously far gone with child. She peeked out at the three visitors and broke into a delighted smile as she recognized one of the men.  
   
“Eoin! Brother Eoin! Truly, it is you!” she eagerly exclaimed, speaking Gaelic.  
   
She stepped over the threshold and hurried towards him. “What a surprise! Torgeirr promised me he’d be buying another Irish thrall, but I didn’t know it would be you! I’ve been longing for someone who speaks my language, someone who knows my home, especially now, when…. Oh, I am glad to see you. Thank the good Lord!”   
   
She smiled unguardedly, holding out her hands to him. Eoin slung his bundle of possessions over his shoulder and took her hands in his, keeping them in a firm warm grip for a moment. “Muirenn!” he said, pulling his mouth into a smile for her benefit. “This is a surprise. Well met!”  
   
The older woman now shook her head at them and their incomprehensible speech, and made little shushing motions to make them both go inside. They did as requested and ducked in through the door, while Gerd herself remained standing where she was, talking to Torgeirr’s two free-men for a while. They had been sent south to help out with the lambing.  
   
Muirenn showed Eoin into the small log-built house, no more than a cottage with a single room inside, and bid him sit down on the bench at the short end, where she’d left her spindle and basket of wool behind. She had been spinning when the newcomers arrived.  
   
“We are making porridge, it is almost ready,” she said, indicating the pot hanging over the hearth. “But I can get you some valle, if you want?”  
   
She ladled the cloudy white drink from a bucket by the door into a wooden cup, and handed it to him before sitting back down. The drink tasted even more bitter than it usually did, but Eoin thirstily drank it down, looking at her over the rim of the cup.  
   
Muirenn’s drop spindle sank slowly down to the side of her bulging belly as she expertly resumed her spinning.  
   
She looked up at him, her eyes warm in the firelight. “This is all I’ve been doing for many a long day,” she said. “There’s nothing else to do and no-one to talk to. In truth, you come here as if Heaven-sent!”  
   
Soon the evening meal was ready, and Gerd put cheese, bread and butter on the table with the porridge, to fill the gaps as the food had not been made to still the additional hunger of three grown men. The little company for the most part ate in silence, occasionally exchanging a comment on the food, the weather or the prospects for the imminent lambing season.  
   
Eoin noted to some surprise that Muirenn’s Norse was poor, and that she frequently stuttered or struggled to make herself understood, even on such simple topics. During the isolated months at Einstad he’d come to take his own near-fluent mastery of the language for granted.  
   
After the meal the two temporary shepherds took their leave and went out to the shed where they would be staying, close to the sheep. Orm and Gerd also said good-night and went to their bed, a closed-off bench space by the door. Eoin and Muirenn were left sitting alone on the far bench. The fire on the hearth was burning low and the warmth in the little room was pleasant.  
   
Muirenn got to her feet and stretched, pressing her hands into the small of her back. “Oh, he’s a lively one, this little one tonight,” she muttered, half to herself, and then looked to Eoin with a small smile. “I’ll go out to the storage shed and fetch us a bowl of ale. Talk flows less freely from parched throats.”  
   
Eoin sat silently with hands in lap and head bowed as he waited for her return. He listened with a heavy heart to the reassuring crackling of the fire on the hearth. So many nights he’d fallen asleep to that very sound, comforting and familiar, in the smithy at Einstad, holding Einnis in his arms….  
   
He looked up as Muirenn returned, and made an effort to return to the here and now. “I hardly recognized you, Muirenn, in your Norse dress… and your hair isn’t red anymore!”  
   
“So you don’t notice anything else that’s different about me?” Muirenn quipped and looked down over herself, blushing slightly.  
   
Putting the ale bowl down on the table she pulled a strand of hair forwards to look at it, shaking her head. She didn’t deny the truth. “These uncouth Norse forest-dwellers and berserkers – there’s simply no henna nor other proper hair colors to be had here in their valleys,” she admitted. “At least not for thralls. Unless I’d like to try the dyes they use for their yarn, of course!”  
   
She sat down next to him and gestured for him to drink. “Not that it means much, now. No-one in this lonely place would have noticed if I shaved my head or dunked it in a bucket of soot.” She moved restlessly on the bench, seeking a better support for her back. “They only suffer me because I’m Torgeirr Haraldson’s woman and will soon bear his child.”  
   
Eoin looked up at her sharply, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise, but he didn’t interrupt her.  
   
“There’s been nothing to do but spinning, and Gerd doesn’t speak much on the best of days. I think she feels that an ambatt is too far beneath her.” Muirenn glanced at him. “Yes, that is one word I’ve had ample occasion to learn, thought I do find the Norse language difficult.”  
   
She grimaced. “I suppose all this surely is a fitting punishment for me, brother. If I hadn’t always been so restless, and easily bored, and reckless enough to walk along the shore to get faster to the market in town, those Norsemen would not have spotted me and I would still have been back home with my parents.”  
   
Her eyes went distant. “By now I’d probably have had a husband of my own.”  
   
“Maybe the Lord has brought you here and shaped your life this way to test your endurance and your patience, and your faith,” Eoin said and sighed. “The Lord’s will is unfathomable, sometimes. We can but pray, and hope, and wait in humility.”  
   
Muirenn glanced at him, and pressed her lips together with a frown. It was her turn now not to reply. Silence reclaimed the room while her drop spindle slowly sank and was lifted back up to have another length of new yarn twined around it. The spindle sank and was lifted, again and again. The regular rhythm of the repeated movement, constant as the ocean tides, lulled them both into a calmer mood.  
   
Eventually Eoin broke the silence. “Muirenn, do you know what happened to the lady Bronagh, who took care of me onboard the Raven's Wing? Have you seen her after you left Kaupang?”  
   
Muirenn shook her head, keeping part of her attention on the spinning as she replied. “She was still in the thrall market, I think, when Torgeirr Haraldson bought me and took me away from there. God grant she has met a good fate, wherever she is, in repayment for her kindness to the both of us.” She sighed. “Dame Bronagh knew my mother. As young girls they came from the same village.”  
   
“Do you miss your home and your parents very much?” Eoin gently asked.  
   
“Oh yes.” Muirenn’s eyes turned distant and pensive. “Well, yes and no. So much has happened since the Norsemen captured me, I feel I am not that girl anymore, the one who hurried carefree and happy along the shore to get to the market. I am another woman. Even if I could go home now, it would not be the same, for I am not the same.”  
   
Her spindle sank again. She twined the strand of yarn around it, and reached laboriously to collect more wool, black and white.  
   
“For a while, sitting there in the thrall market, with men ogling me and making me stand up and turn around, pinching me and tugging at my hair and feeling my body, haggling over a price…. I thought I would go mad with shame and grief and despair. They were leering, all of them, just like those two who forced me before I was dragged onboard the ship…. I was certain I could never survive such misery.”  
   
The spindle whirred, Muirenn’s quick fingers working tirelessly, and the fire crackled as the last few logs shifted and collapsed in on themselves. She looked over at the hearth as if waking from sleep, and then back at Eoin. “Please, would you place some more wood on the fire, brother?”  
   
Once he sat down again she continued where she’d left off. “When Torgeirr bought me and brought me to his house, I thought I would never see another happy day. But Torgeirr has been gentle and kind to me. He… made me see that what happens between a man and a woman need not always be painful and disgusting. He made me smile again, and made me feel safe, even though I’m just his ambatt, and he never pretended I would be more. He has promised he will not sell me to someone else, that he will help me set up a living and a life for myself - and for the child. I trust him. I am not sorry to be carrying his child, either. I only wish……”  
   
She left the sentence unfinished, biting her lip. “Oh, I might as well wish for the full moon on a necklace to wear for high-days.”  
   
Obviously anxious to change the subject, she looked at Eoin questioningly. “What happened to you, brother, since we last met? How have you fared this winter in the snow?”  
   
Eoin shook his head and shrugged. “I’ve been living among other thralls, heathens all of them, and I’ve been working months on end in the forests as a lumberjack. It’s been very different from my life back home, but there’s not much I have to tell. I didn’t suffer, though the days were long and the work hard, many times.” He shrugged again. “And then the master sold me. I guess he got a decent price.”  
   
“He was on the ship that took us from Ireland, wasn’t he? Muirenn asked. “I remember seeing him. Tall he was, with blond hair and beard, and many times he would be scowling. He ordered Bronagh to take care of you when you were ill. It comes back to me now.”  
   
Eoin nodded in confirmation, but otherwise didn’t continue the talk about his life in captivity and his previous master.  
   
They sat without speaking for a while, each pondering hopes that reality had thrown back in their faces, dreams that had proved elusive.  
   
“Torgeirr Haraldson does seem like an honest, generous man… for a Norseman, that is,” Eoin eventually said, breaking the silence with an effort and speaking slowly as his thoughts came to him. “But I cannot make sense of him, nor of any of these Norse men. They behave like the very devils in hell when they go raiding in Ireland. They’re merciless, violent and evil, they kill and rape and maim, and then they come back here and sometimes prove themselves both kind and fair and generous. They’re most scrupulous about following their laws and guarding their reputation, so I’ve noted. Yet then they turn around again all of a sudden and behave like the heathens they are. This constant back and forth between light and dark, between right and wrong, between kindness and cruelty – it must mean their hearts are not like ours. I don’t understand all these contradictions. Norse men are a mystery.”      
   
Muirenn glanced at him, her face sad. “I think we shouldn’t judge them all equally, though it’s true they are heathens, and I know it means their souls are lost. But Torgeirr… I can’t think of him as evil. He has always been good to me. He has been quoting a part of a poem to me, some ancient words of wisdom. At home he lives by them, I know he does, – I’ve witnessed it myself.”  
 

_”The brave and generous  
Have the best lives.  
They’re seldom sorry.”_

   
She let the spindle drop down on the bench, and drew a weary hand across her eyes.  
   
“I’m tired, Eoin. We will have to continue our talk tomorrow. But Torgeirr will come here soon, I know, and explain what his plans for us are. He wanted me to go to Kaupang, but not till I could go together with the Irish thrall he’d promised me he’d be buying.”  
   
A small smile lit her face, “He knows I pine for someone to speak my own language with, someone who knows the exact color green that I dream of at night. But I didn’t know that it would be you! Now that Torgeirr’s married – yes, I know he is, he told me why he traveled north – well, if I can’t be with him, I’d rather be in Kaupang. There are many people there, and much to see and hear and do. Here, it’s too lonely, and too quiet, and all my sadness and my regrets ring in my ears too loudly.”  
   
Soon thereafter, Eoin said his evening prayers with Muirenn listening reverently and joining in his ‘amens’. Thereafter he bedded down on the bench opposite Muirenn’s for the night. For a little while he could see her eyes glinting, twin mirrors for the dying few flames on the hearth, but soon they closed and she slept, breathing deeply and evenly, her pregnant shape bulging under the blanket.  
   
Eoin pondered her last words. He knew he agreed with her. If he couldn’t have the vast open spaces and silent lonely landscapes with Einnis Elmarson, he’d rather be surrounded by people, activity, noises and smells. All of it might distract him, help him hide the gaping hole inside, disguise the longing he felt like a physical pain, cover up the sense of bitter betrayal.  
   
He shifted on the bench uneasily, beset by heavy thoughts.  
   
The solid ground had shifted under him and turned to flowing mud when Einnis sent him away. He still hadn’t regained his footing, nor his faith, and he didn’t know whether he ever would.  
   
Until Einnis brutally shattered his peace of mind, he’d been so sure, so sure of God’s hand guiding his life. The beauty he’d discovered in this most unexpected of places and human beings had been a gift that he hadn’t questioned, merely accepted in humility and gratitude.  
   
The ride southwards after Einnis sold him off had been the heaviest hours and days in his life. He had been bewildered and in despair, his soul filled with darkest doubt, beset by turmoil and uncertainties. When he tried to pray, he had felt no response, no comfort, no inner light.  
   
He’d feared he’d been wrong all along. Oh, he’d not been mistaken in acknowledging his own feelings for what they were; he had loved Einnis, he still did, and always would. But maybe that very love was nothing but a siren’s call, its fair form hiding foul evil blandishments at its core? Maybe it had been a test from God, a test that he had failed when he embraced Einnis instead of rejecting him?  
   
Ever since the monastery’s doors closed behind him when he entered its safe and sacred halls Eoin’d had complete faith in God’s hand guiding him and his life. Maybe he’d not sufficiently minded the pitfalls along the way. Maybe he unsuspectingly had fallen into the devil’s trap of shameful carnal lust and sinful pleasures. The Norse gods and powers were evil forces, and might be stronger than he’d thought. Eve had after all been enticed and tempted to eat from the tree, and so the doors of paradise had been closed against her and her husband forever. Maybe he had just been evicted from his own wintry paradise for the very same reason.  
   
Einnis was a heathen, an enemy, and a man. Loving him body, heart and soul was sinful and shameful according to the Church’s teachings and God’s word. Eoin knew as much. He’d always known. But it had felt so sweet, so right, so natural. It had been beautiful, had filled him with joy and gratitude, had seemed like a blessing from above. How could it have been evil, how could it have been wrong?  
   
Everything in him had railed in protest against all his sudden doubts and fears, though he hadn’t been able to make sense of Einnis’s cruel words and deeds. Einnis had sold him, had sent him away with scornful words, had shrugged at Eoin’s devastation and rejected his heart, freely given. But he’d also whispered, sadly and softly, “there is no other way”. And he’d given him the beautiful, costly cross.  
   
With one hand, he’d dealt a mortal blow, with the other delivered the precious gift of freedom.  
   
The cross! “By this sign you shall conquer. By this sign, you shall be saved!” Eoin grinned mirthlessly into the darkness, a wry grimace of dawning realization. This golden cross resting against the bare skin over his heart was turning out to be his salvation in more ways than one. It could buy him his freedom and save him from the yoke and indignity of thralldom. But it also was his salvation from self-doubt, from doubt in Einnis  - and in God. It was proof that his fears had been unfounded. He hadn’t lost Einnis.  
   
He saw Einnis’s agonized face with his mind’s eye, and felt stinging pain and sorrow. But he saw not only Einnis clearly now, but also the forces swirling around them in a tug-of-war that had dragged Einnis down to his knees in surrender.  
   
Eoin remembered Ketil Elmarson’s venomous glances, and the scorn and spite he himself had endured both from free-men and other thralls for being different. He remembered the harsh accusations and the unforgiving faces of men ready to lift their crowbars to end his life. He recalled Einnis’s whispered order for him to hide from Ketil’s men at Einstad. Such was the nature of the powers fiercely protecting the Norse men’s fame and honor and the laws of their gods, forcing him and Einnis apart.  
   
God had not used their love to tempt and to test him. Instead, Eoin knew that their separation and what he was going through here and now was the test. And he would stand firm. He would not give up, though his love for Einnis was rare and unexpected and his true resolve was being tested all the more for that.  
   
Eoin felt some measure of strength returning to his own bruised and battered heart.  
   
His eyes had been opened now to the brutal truths he had merely chosen to leave to God, the many obstacles in his and Einnis’s way. He could never return to the naïve belief that love and beauty and God’s benevolent grace would insulate them from the realities of this most uncertain, dangerous world.  
   
He remembered Muirenn’s words this evening, and pondered their truth. He could not now go back to being the Eoin who once lived peacefully in the monastery. And he could never again become the Eoin from this winter with Einnis, for he was not the same anymore. During those sweet winter months he had lived in a waking dream. Now the veils had been ripped from his eyes for once and all. He’d watched his illusions torn to shreds in an instant.  
   
But the very core of his being remained intact. He would need to be strong, perhaps strong enough for two, but he would not give in to despair or hopelessness. He would bide his time, and pray, and wait, and if God ever granted Einnis and him a second chance, he would let neither men nor gods beat them down without at least fighting back.  
   
He hitched up his rough tunic and let his hand slide up to firmly grasp the golden cross, so different from Einnis’s simple silver Thor’s hammer that he always wore. The cross carried a promise not only of eventual salvation, but of blood and tears. So be it.  
   
Eoin folded his hands and sent a simple prayer to God, a prayer to guard Einnis and to keep him safe, and to give Eoin himself strength to stay the course till their reward was due and God’s blessing would be upon them at last, either in this world or the next.  
   
With that, he fell asleep, exhausted in body and mind, and slept soundly for the first time since he’d had to leave Einnis and the farm behind.

\- x - 

An easy companionship evolved between Eoin and Muirenn. They enjoyed being able to speak their own language and their own minds freely again at last, taking comfort in expressing themselves with ease to someone steeped in the same customs, fellow Christians who prayed to the same God and felt the same unease about the traditions and idols of the Norse. Their common fate as well as the sometimes harsh experiences and loneliness they had endured as thralls in a strange country became the foundation of friendship and respect for one another, which made life seem easier for both.  
   
They would laugh together at strange Norse behavior and incomprehensible expectations and their own consequent misfortunes, and make sly little jokes at the expense of their original captors. Though unvoiced, their strong and ambivalent emotions tied to relationships with their respective masters, and their secret but very similar hopes for the future resonated in their talks and in their shared silences, and contributed to forging even tighter bonds of understanding and appreciation between the two.  
   
During the days, Muirenn would continue with her spinning, sitting outside in the sun when the weather allowed, and moving her unwieldy bulk indoors when the afternoons turned chilly. Eoin for his part would help the shepherds look to the lambing. He never stopped enjoying the sight of every little lamb entering the world, each one a perfect God’s miracle of new life, rising on wobbly feet to seek the ewe’s udder and to drink its fill, its tiny tail waggling incessantly with intense delight at such a simple pleasure.  
   
In the evening, after Gerd and Orm had retired to bed, Muirenn and Eoin had the cottage’s only room to themselves. They spoke of many things past and present. Sometimes they merely sat together in comfortable silence in the soft glow from the hearth’s fire.  
   
They talked a little of what moving to Kaupang would entail, and pondered Torgeirr’s plans. Muirenn admitted she didn’t know exactly what he had in mind. He had promised to come greet his son once he’d been born, she said, and she was content to wait till that time to learn what his intentions for them were, and what fate would next have in store. In her current condition she could not have traveled to Kaupang anyway.  
   
Eoin made his best effort every day to curb his impatience, and to still the cry of despair and longing in his heart. His diligent prayers became more earnest and more frequent as he returned to practicing the Monastery’s morning and evening rituals. Muirenn witnessed this respectfully and sometimes knelt down with him, head humbly bent and hands piously folded. She fervently added her own prayers to God’s holy mother for help and protection during her own imminent confinement. Orm muttered discontentedly at this turn of events, and Gerd started ignoring Eoin completely.  
   
One evening in early summer Muirenn felt the first pangs of childbirth. Gerd ordered her to bed, made the men leave the house, set water to boiling and sent Orm for two women from neighboring farmsteads, one of whom was an experienced midwife.  
   
Orm grumbled that he couldn’t see the need for such a large fuss and turn-out for an ambatt’s lying-in, but Gerd reminded him that ambatt or no, it was their master’s child who was about to enter the world. Torgeirr would hardly be pleased if the babe didn’t survive, and that meant taking care of the mother. Orm kept his peace and left to fetch the two women.  
   
Eoin stayed outside the cottage the whole night through, waiting anxiously.  He had never been close by during childbirth before. His mother had not born other children than him, and in the monastery there were no women. But he had heard stories in the thrall house at the Elmarsons’ farm to make his blood run cold.  
   
He kneeled in prayer as raw, frantic screams of pain rose shrill into the misty dawn air. It seemed a very long time before the screaming stopped at last, and blessed silence descended. Some little time after, Gerd came out of the cottage, favoring her aching back while politely taking leave of the two women who’d helped with the birthing.  
   
She looked to Orm and Eoin who had both gotten to their feet and stood waiting, and nodded. “A large, strong boy child. The master will surely be pleased. He should be notified. He told us to send for him as soon as it came to this. Have one of the men ride north right away,” she said to Orm. Turning to Eoin, she shrugged and added; “She wants to see you, thrall.”  
   
Eoin ignored her small-minded disdain and entered the cottage reverently. Muirenn lay on the bench, drawn and pale, her long brown hair in a sweat-damp disheveled braid over one shoulder, a tiny bundle with a scrunched-up red and angry little face lying in a basket next to her. A big knife had been stuck into the wall above the bench, protecting mother and child from malevolent powers. Muirenn’s chest rose and fell regularly. As soon as Gerd left her side she had fallen into exhausted, healing sleep.  
   
Eoin tip-toed across the floor to stand looking down on her and the child in the soft light from the smoke vent in the roof and an oil lamp left burning on the table. His heart filled with tenderness and a strong urge to protect them from harm. Both looked so innocent and defenseless in their sleep. They would be equally defenseless when awake, should Torgeirr Haraldson ever go back on his promise to support his ambatt and her son. Eoin had heard thralls talking of the custom of sometimes leaving unwanted or sickly newborns out in the forest, exposed and alone for the wild animals to feed on. Revolting as the practice was, he knew a thrall woman would have no means of stopping it, should her master decide on such a fate for her newborn, or decide to sell the child once it had been weaned.  
   
His left hand sought the cross hidden under his tunic and clutched it fiercely. He pressed his fist and the cross to his chest and bowed his head. Drawing a deep breath, he lifted his right hand and carefully made the sign of the cross over the sleeping Muirenn and her son.  
   
”In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.....”  
   
The room smelled strongly of blood and sweat, smoke and the ale that the child had been washed in before being wrapped, but Eoin was too lost in his own thoughts to notice. He remained standing next to the bench, watching over mother and son for a long time before quietly stepping back into the glaring light of the bright summer day.  
 

\- x - 

   
Einnis Elmarson returned to his property and the building of his farm soon after his sister’s wedding. Those of his men who knew him from before noticed that he was more taciturn and moody than he’d used to be, but he was never unfair, and he worked tirelessly without sparing himself in the efforts to complete the farm buildings.  
   
The work on the site progressed steadily. The thralls cut peat in the nearby bog and hauled it back to the farm, and the other men worked on cutting and shaping the logs and planks that would be needed, and leveling the ground where the new farm houses would go up. Once the actual building work started, Einnis had two master carpenters fetched from the valley to oversee the work, and also hired a wood-carver to embellish the High Seat poles, the main hall’s beams and the closed benches. And so the new farm took shape under the hot summer sun.  
   
Einnis didn’t return to sleeping in the little stone smithy where he’d spent the winter months. Instead he stayed in one of the makeshift sheds the men had erected, sheds that served them well enough in the warmer weather.  
   
The smithy was used for storage for a while, but when the time came for the workers to lay the stonework base for the new main hall, Einnis told them to take down and use the smithy walls. He’d wanted to build a new and more practically located smithy for some time, he said, and the old one’s wood and stone should not be wasted.  
   
Though the men didn’t fully understand the point in razing a perfectly usable little building, they did as ordered. Soon there was nothing left but a dark square of hard-packed earth in the field where the smithy had stood for many years. Weeds, grasses and trailing creepers wasted no time in reclaiming this long lost patch of ground for themselves and for nature.  
   
The Einstad hall, however, was taking shape and rising majestically in its location near the fields, solidly built with fine, strong logs on a foundation that had the smithy’s weather-beaten and smoke-stained stones at its core. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Valle** : Strained sour milk, commonly used to quench thirst, - once strained it could last for weeks. 
> 
> **Women’s hairdos** : Depictions of Viking era women often show them having their hair tied up in a knot at the back of their heads but with the long end dangling down, sort of an advanced ponytail. 
> 
> **Drop spindle** : The common spinning tool. Drop spindle whorls have been found in nearly every woman’s grave from the era, and a perfect example was also present in the Oseberg find. Spinning and weaving were the daily activities of women from nearly every class. 
> 
> **“The brave and generous”, etc** – Torgeirr has chosen yet another Havamal word of wisdom as his personal motto.
> 
>  **Exposing newborns** : This practice was legal under Norse laws. If a child’s father or a thrall woman’s master so decided, and for whatever reason, a newborn could be left out in the wilds to die without legal repercussions. The practice was frowned upon, but several sagas mention it being actively used. Both in Gunnlaug Ormstunge’s saga and St’. Olaf’s saga one of the chief protagonists barely escape such a fate as newborns.


	16. Chapter 16

Four days after the birth of her son, Muirenn was sitting up on the bench after the midday meal, cradling the infant in her lap. She’d had a hard delivery and had needed rest and care afterwards. This was the first day she felt well enough to get dressed and to do more than the merest cat-wash in the morning.  
   
It was a fine, warm day, but Eoin was still in the cottage. She’d asked him to remain when the others went outside.  
   
The little boy was sleeping, and she sat lost in thought, stroking his downy head with a gentle finger, humming softly. Then she loosened her long braid, fetched a comb from her little bundle of possessions and started working out the snarls and tangles in her hair with slow and careful movements.    
   
Eventually she was satisfied and braided her hair into a long thick rope, dangling over her shoulder. She looked up at Eoin, who was sitting opposite her, watching the two of them. “Brother Eoin, would you fetch a bowl of water, please? My little one is not baptized yet, and there are no priests here, nor in Kaupang, I should think. The world is full of dangers, I don’t want his immortal soul to be at permanent risk. Would you baptize my son?”  
   
Eoin smiled at her, happy to see her feeling better, and approving of her question, which did not come entirely as a surprise. “Don’t you want to wait till the child’s father arrives?” he nevertheless asked, making sure she’d thought her actions through.  
   
“Torgeirr need not know about it,” Muirenn said firmly. “I think he would not accept it, and would stop me from having the boy baptized. In most matters I would not go against Torgeirr’s wishes, but in this I have no choice. My son will not be left to the mercy of the likes of Thor and Odin. He must be baptized!”  
   
“Then so let it be done,” Eoin nodded. He walked over to wash his hands in the bucket of water by the door. Then he quietly went about the room, fetching a bowl of water, some grains of salt and Muirenn’s white scarf, before sitting down next to Muirenn on the bench, looking down on her innocently sleeping little boy.  
   
“I am no priest, and I do not know the full ritual,” he said apologetically. “But I know the good Lord will receive him and bless him even so”.  
   
He bent his head. “Let us pray.”  
   
Muirenn immediately followed his lead. “Ave Maria, gratia plena….”  
   
Eoin bent down and breathed gently on the little boy’s head. “May the powers of darkness retire before you!”  
   
He looked up at Muirenn questioningly. “What name shall he be given?”  
   
She did not hesitate. “Padraig,” she answered clearly.  
   
Eoin smiled approvingly. “A good name.” He made the sign of the cross on the forehead and chest of the little one, and gently pried his lips open to place the few grains of salt in his mouth.  
   
“Peace be with you, Padraig,” he said. Once more he and Muirenn bowed their heads, and now solemnly spoke the Lord’s prayer. Little Padraig started whimpering in his mother’s arms. He didn’t appreciate the salty taste on his tongue. Muirenn gently rocked him in her arms, watching him with tender eyes while holding him out towards Eoin.  
   
“Hush, hush, little one. We’re almost there!”  
   
Eoin held the bowl of water under the boy’s head, and three times carefully poured water from the palm of his hand over the crown of the little head. “Padraig, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”  
   
Now little Padraig started howling in earnest, protesting the cold water, and Eoin made haste to dry his head with the white scarf, the sign of innocence. He looked at mother and child and smiled warmly.  
   
“The Lord be with you. The Lord bless you both. Amen.”  
   
Muirenn happily stroked the cheek of her bawling son. “Thank you. Now I can rest easy!” She shook her head at a particularly loud scream. “Well, at least there will be rest when Padraig stops this infernal hollering!”  
   
She hurriedly unfastened one of her brooches and let the front of her dress down just enough to be able to lay the boy to her breast, as Eoin modestly averted his eyes. Silence descended on the room as the infant started suckling, and Muirenn leaned back against the wall, tiredly closing her eyes. The tension of their secret baptism ceremony had taken its toll on her.  
   
At that moment Gerd tore the door open and looked in on them. “Myrunn, the master is here! Look sharp!” With that the door banged shut again, and Muirenn looked to Eoin in consternation.  
   
“I think I had better see him alone….”  
   
Eoin at once got up and made for the door, but had only made the first few steps when the door was torn open once more and Torgeirr Haraldson ducked through in a hurry, his glance immediately drawn to Muirenn with their son at her breast.  
   
“Muirenn!” he said breathlessly. “How are you?” He strode across the floor, sitting down next to her in the dim space on the bench and looking into her face. Muirenn bent her head so that her thick braid covered part of her suddenly blushing countenance. Eoin hurried out of the cottage before she could respond. The last thing he saw before closing the door quietly behind himself was Torgeirr placing one arm around Muirenn’s shoulders while gently cradling the head of the still-suckling infant with his free hand.  
 

\- x - 

   
Some time went by before Torgeirr came to the door and looked out.  
   
“Orm, may I borrow the house a little longer? I have some business to attend to. And Jaran, come back in again. Bring a bowl of ale with you. I am thirsty.”  
   
When Eoin entered, bowl in hand, Muirenn had placed the sated and sleeping infant in his sleeping basket, and had brought her clothes into order. She was looking down into her lap and seemed both calm and collected.  
   
Eoin set the bowl on the bench, quietly placed himself opposite the two others, and waited.  
   
“I have recently seen the godi who is my neighbor and a well-known law speaker,” Torgeirr began. “I needed to hear what the laws say about liberation of thralls. I’ve never had occasion to look into it before, but the mother of my first-born son is not going to remain an ambatt. And from what my wife tells me, Muirenn is not the only thrall that I may be setting free. What say you, Jaran?” He looked quizzically at Eoin, who met him stare for stare.  
   
“That is true, Torgeirr Haraldson. I do wish to buy my freedom, now that I have the means to do so.”  
   
“Sigrid told me of the golden pendant. Would you let me see it?”  
   
Eoin hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing at Muirenn, then pulled the golden object out from under his rough tunic. Muirenn gasped, her eyes going wide as she stared at it, stunned speechless. The cross glittered in the cottage dimness like a star descended to earth.  
   
Torgeirr looked at it in surprise, and shook his head. “It is a beautiful thing, and costly. Sigrid did not exaggerate. I do not know why my brother-in-law would give you such a magnificent thing. You must have done him a service beyond compare…?”  
   
Torgeirr waited for a moment, but Eoin did not reply, and the Norseman continued. “I fully respect Einnis’s wishes, though, just as I respect him. He must have good reasons for keeping silent about the story behind this valuable gift to you. That tale is yours and his to keep and guard unless you will it differently. The gold pendant is yours, too, and you may do with it what you want. It is certainly worth more than what I paid Einnis for you.”  
   
He looked at Muirenn, and then back at Eoin.  
   
“Now the laws say that I may set a thrall free in front of witnesses, but that thrall will still remain just like a thrall in many respects,” Torgeirr began. “He can’t marry without my acceptance, and can neither buy nor sell. But if there is a Liberation Ale feast, and witnesses to prove that all formalities of the law have been followed, then the thrall will be considered free from then on and counted as a man - or a woman -  and not as someone’s property. The law requires that a thrall works one full year for his master after liberation though, as a servant earning wages.”  
   
A sigh escaped Eoin and was echoed by Muirenn. They were both taken aback at this news. “One year?”  
   
Torgeirr looked uncomfortable. “That’s the law. I cannot change it. If we do not abide by it, you would risk someone capturing you and making a thrall of you again. The laws would allow that. In fact, the laws require it.”  
   
Eoin sighed. “What then is this Liberation Ale feast? What must I do?”  
   
He carefully listened to Torgeirr’s explanation, silently marveling at the strange Norse laws and customs, and nodded once the Norseman finished, drinking deeply from the bowl of ale in conclusion.  
   
“All of that should be possible. If we are to travel to Kaupang, I can sell the gold, and then when you come there, I will pay to arrange a Liberation Ale feast, for both myself and Muirenn.”  
   
Muirenn smiled, and Torgeirr looked pleased, his eyes moving from Eoin to Muirenn and back. “That is good,” he said. “In two weeks' time or so I will ride south to Kaupang to see to my clan’s business there, and my own trading. I will go with you to hear what the gold is valued at and what it weighs, so that you get your full price. I had intended to take you both south to Kaupang in any case.”  
   
He paused, studying the two of them. “I suppose neither of you have ever heard of Gunnar Grimson Gavlpryd?” he asked.  
   
Eoin and Muirenn exchanged a look, before shaking their heads.  
   
“Well, he’s a master wood-carver in Kaupang,” Torgeirr explained. “The master woodcarver, would perhaps be nearer the mark. He’s an artist of the highest order, his work is as fine as it gets, he has carved ship stems and sleighs and wagons for earls and godis and even for kings and queens. But there’s a problem… he drinks too much. He drinks a lot. There’s no denying he’s living proof of the wisdom of yore;  
 

_A better burden may no man bear_  
 _when wandering wide than wisdom;_  
 _Worse food for the journey he brings not afield_  
 _Than too many draughts of ale.”_

   
Torgeirr snorted in derision. “Because of all the ale Gunnar frequently doesn’t manage to finish his work, and neglects his orders, so rich patrons have started to shun him. It’s a pity. I made a deal with him when he came north this spring. I’ll help him get back on his feet and have someone manage his life and his agreements, and in return I will get a cut off his fees when he starts working his craft properly – as he should do. A talent such as his is too rarely seen.”  
   
Distracted despite himself, Torgeirr leaned forward to gently stroke his sleeping son’s cheek a few times, staring in fascination at the tiny face, then sat back to continue.  
   
“Do you know anything at all about wood-carving, Jaran?”  
   
Eoin laughed, a harsh bitter bark.  
   
The two others looked at him in surprise, and he shrugged. “Yes, I sometimes helped my father, when he had to hurry to make delivery of his orders. He was a wood-carver. He never taught me a thing, though, never once - but I learned from watching him anyway. To think anything to do with that man would become useful in my life!”  
   
“Well, that’s good,” Torgeirr said, a bit uncertainly. ”My plan is that Muirenn will keep Gunnar’s house in Kaupang, maybe help sort out the agreements and the payments too, if the little one here leaves her time for it.”  
   
He glanced at Muirenn. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, girl, and don’t you forget it!” he said, addressing her in a quick aside. “And I thought that you Jaran will accompany Gunnar on his travels to customers, help him with tools and logs and ensure he gets quality material. Keep an eye on him, remind him to keep working, do your best to stop him from drinking all the time.”

He shrugged. “He will be drinking now and then, not even Odin himself with all his magic and wisdom can stop that, but Gunnar will feel better when he can keep it together more and work his craft instead of constantly ending up dead-drunk in the nearest ditch.”  
   
Torgeirr looked from Muirenn to Eoin. “What say you both? You will live in Gunnar’s house in Kaupang. As you know, thralls can’t marry, but people will likely think you’re a couple, even so. Both of you and the little one will be the safer for that. But what you decide to do between yourselves and behind the walls of your new home, is up to the both of you and no-one else’s business.”  
   
Muirenn blushed and lowered her eyes. Eoin shifted on the bench uncomfortably. “I am a man of God, the Christian God, and I have sworn off women for the rest of my life,” he said slowly.  
   
Torgeirr shook his head in wonder. “Man, you are truly missing out on the best things in life! Why would your god be such a killjoy, and require that of you? Why would he want you to remain childless? Having sons is every man’s delight, and his obligation to kin and clan!”  
   
Torgeirr once more stroked the sleeping Padraig’s cheek, a proud smile on his face. “Just look at little Sverri, here!“  
   
Startled, Eoin looked at Muirenn, who met his eyes and gave him the slightest shake of her head.  
   
“He is indeed a fine strong son to make any father proud,” Eoin said, his voice neutral.  
   
The three of them sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the child, then Muirenn spoke up in her halting Norse. “I will go to Kaupang with your son, Torgeirr, and do as you propose. It sounds good to me. I’ll look after the house of this Gunnar… Grimson?”  
   
“Gavlpryd,” Torgeirr grinned. “He got the name because he carved dragon’s heads for the gables of one of the dowager queen’s manors. Then he got blind drunk and somehow managed to climb up on her roof and got stuck there, just like one of his own carvings, but looking far worse, so the story goes. It is true he is no Balder as far as looks go! Men had to climb up and set him free from there and tie him up to get him back down.” Torgeirr laughed. “Since that day, the name has stuck!”  
   
He turned serious, and looked at Eoin. “What do you say?”  
   
Eoin nodded and reached his right hand out to the other. “I agree with Muirenn. It is a good plan”.  
   
Torgeirr gripped his hand firmly, and they shook hands. The matter was settled.  
   
Now Torgeirr asked Muirenn to undress little Sverri, and bid Orm and Gerd, his herdsmen and the two free-men who’d accompanied him south to enter the cottage. In front of them he solemnly lifted the naked infant onto his round shield while he held it on his knees, and then poured water over the baby. It ran over the edge of the shield in rivulets and splashed down to the earth floor in front of his feet.  
   
“This is my son, and his name is Sverri, after my mother’s father, Sverri Svarte,” Torgeirr said, his voice grave. “As his name-giving gift he shall have this ring, which his mother will guard for him till he can wear it in good health himself.”  
   
Torgeirr pulled a golden ring off his finger, and dropped it into Muirenn’s palm. The witnesses all congratulated him on his healthy son and asked the gods to protect the boy and look to him in favor, and to make him strong. Sverri immediately set about proving that he had at least been gifted with strong lungs, and everyone laughed as Muirenn rescued her dripping-wet bawling son and started drying him off.  
   
Torgeirr grinned happily. “Now let’s all celebrate! Fetch more of your best ale, Gerd!” he shouted through the din.   
 

\- x - 

   
Padraig thrived and grew stronger every day, and Muirenn soon felt well enough after her ordeal to venture outside the cottage and to enjoy the mild summer weather, taking her spinning outside, resting in the shadow of the house, and rocking and nursing the baby. When Torgeirr returned after a few weeks with a company of his men, Muirenn and Eoin immediately packed their few belongings and took their leave of Gerd and Orm. They thanked them for their hospitality, and left without a single backward glance.  
   
The ride to Kaupang went without incident. In fact, both Muirenn and Eoin enjoyed being on the road again, and Torgeirr and his men were good and cheerful company as the party rode at an even pace through green forests and small villages with brown houses and huts, and along fields of grass and of grain that would soon be turning golden.  
   
They got their first glimpses of the fjord and the ocean beyond, and soon after rode into Kaupang. Gunnar’s house was a low wooden building in a row of other craftsmen’s very similar houses. The living quarters were in back, with a patch of earth for the growing of herbs outside, and the workshop was in front. The building had a decrepit, unused look about it, and the party found Gunnar snoring loudly on a bare wooden bench, smelling far and wide of ale and vomit, though it was the middle of the day. His wild and unkempt hair and beard and filthy clothes made it hard to form an impression of his looks, but a handsome man he clearly was not. Nevertheless he had uncommonly fine hands with long slender fingers.  
   
Uncharacteristically irritated and clearly disappointed, Torgeirr shook Gunnar awake, briefly introduced Eoin and Muirenn by their Norse names, and had one of his men drag Gunnar off to the bath house without further ado. He himself went on to his clan’s house with the two Irish thralls in order to let them pick up things they would be needing, since Gunnar’s house looked completely empty. They returned with bedding and cooking utensils, foodstuffs and firewood. Muirenn did not want to place all these things inside until the filthy house had been cleaned, so she had Eoin collect water from the nearby well. Soon there was fire on the hearth and water boiling, and she set about changing Gunnar’s pigsty back into a home.  
   
By nightfall the house was in reasonable order. Torgeirr returned to praise their efforts just as Gunnar reappeared from the bathhouse, looking clean and groomed, but drawn, emaciated and with dark circles round his sunken eyes. He appeared to be sober, though, and grumbled as the infant in Muirenn’s arms started mewling.  
   
“Torgeirr Haraldson, you must be joking. Do you plan to keep me away from ale only to force me to live in this horrible racket?”  
   
Muirenn shushed and rocked the baby, but he started wailing lustily, and she sent an apologetic look in Torgeirr’s direction.  
   
Torgeirr shook his head, once more looking annoyed. “Gunnar, I’m leaving my son and his mother with you. Treat them well and with respect. Sverri is a healthy child, as you can hear. See to it that he remains so!”  
   
With that Torgeirr took his leave and left the three strange bedfellows to take each other’s measure warily.  
   
Gunnar grumbled as he went to seek his bench for the night. “Willful Irish thralls and horribly screaming infants, that’s who he’s giving me for companions. I’ve made a deal I’ll too soon regret, I wager. I don’t know how I’ll manage another day of this. Thor protect me!”  
   
Muirenn and Eoin were too tired to take his spite to heart, or to respond. They too sought their benches as soon as Padraig calmed down, and soon all three of them slept deeply on this their first night in Kaupang.

\- x - 

One afternoon in late summer, Einnis Elmarson stood by one of the newly erected stone fences and surveyed his farm with approval. It was a hot sweltering day, and he was both sweaty and weary from the mind-numbingly hard and incessant work, but his eyes were filled with quiet pride.  
   
In front of him the new farm stood proudly; the finished hall, weaving-house, fire-hall, storage house and beyond the yard, a solid cow shed and stable. Incessant hammering could be heard from inside the hall, where carpenters were finishing the interior wooden walls and benches. Another crew of men was working on the roof of the weaving-house, placing square-cut grass sods carefully on a thick layer of dried birch bark.  
   
Einnis drew a deep breath. The farm was near completion. The construction work would soon be over, and a new phase would begin here on this place, and in his life. He’d seen it through. Once more he dried sweat off his brow, and turned to walk slowly in the direction of the paddock where he kept his horses. No matter how busy his day, he always found time to check on them, hand them some small prune-like apples from yesteryear’s harvest, and pat their warm flanks and soft noses soothingly.  
   
Suddenly he stopped short. There was a long feather lying directly in his path, night-black and glistening. A raven’s wing feather. He sometimes heard ravens in the woods behind Einstad, but they rarely showed themselves near the farm anymore, being wary of all the humans and their hustle and bustle. Einnis stared at the feather for a moment, then carefully picked it up, his face suddenly pensive and his eyes distant. It was soft and yielding under his finger as he gently and repeatedly stroked the glistening dark length, following the finger’s slow movement with his eyes. He sighed.  
   
At that very moment he heard horses approaching, and looked up to see Ketil Efni and a few of his men riding up to the farm at a fast pace. Einnis instinctively made as if to throw the black feather away, but at the last moment let it slip down the front of his tunic instead. There it came to rest plastered on the slick sweaty skin of his chest, hidden from view.  
   
Ketil greeted him with a bleak smile, and at first seemed to have no errand, but asked to be shown around. His brother was more than willing to comply, and they walked around the buildings for a while, Einnis pointing out and commenting on the construction details and the progress since Ketil last visited.  
   
Ketil was oddly distracted and uneasy, though, and Einnis eventually caught on to his brother’s unusual absentmindedness.  
   
“Is something the matter, brother? You seem out of sorts.”  
   
“Nothing is the matter,” Ketil said gruffly, kicking a pebble out of his path impatiently. “Well, nothing important, I suppose. I visited with Helga Hauksdottir yesterday…. ”  
   
With that, his tale ground to a halt before it had properly started. Einnis shot him a searching glance. “And…?” he prompted.  
   
“We sat talking and drinking for a while,” Ketil muttered. “She was in good spirits, and I enjoyed myself.” He shrugged. “Then I found it to be time to get to the point of my visit, and get her response to the proposal at last, but she said she wanted time yet before she would consider marrying anyone. Time! She’s had months to decide! She’s kept me waiting, a wretched fool dancing to her merry tune, like one of those trained bears in Novgorod! So….”  
   
“Yes?” Einnis said quietly when Ketil once more stalled.  
   
“I grabbed her by the shoulders, and gave her my point of view. I shook her, and tried to kiss her. She’d been asking for it, hadn’t she, but now she resisted me!”  
   
Einnis looked at his brother in consternation. “What?”  
   
“Well, what can you expect!” Ketil blurted out, suddenly furious. ”The bitch has been leading me on for months, talking nicely and smiling so sweetly and laughing and jesting like a wanton. Did you see her at Sigrid’s wedding? She looked ready to bed me right there on the hall table, hair down and half undressed! What was I supposed to think?”  
   
Einnis shook his head and groaned, horrified. “Ketil!”  
   
“She tore herself free and looked at me as haughtily as if I were a thrall or a pig’s turd. She ordered me off her property, told me I’d outstayed my welcome and that I needn’t come back ever again unless it was to offer her an apology she could truly believe in. And she said that if it still was not clear to me, her answer to my proposal was ‘no’, and that was her final word.”  
   
Ketil squirmed, glancing furtively at Einnis. “I…. got very angry. I pretty much lost it. I slapped her across the face, so hard that she fell to the floor.”  
   
“Ketil!”  
   
“Well, I was drunk. Ale makes another man, as the saying goes. And she was treating me like a thrall after tempting me for Frey knows how long! I won’t take such insults from anyone, I tell you - least of all a woman!”  
   
Einnis drew a deep breath. ”You haven’t apologized to her?”  
   
”No!” Ketil blurted. He fidgeted and nervously bit his lip. ”Do you think I should?”  
   
Einnis sighed. He looked out over his farm, its newly tarred log walls under the green turf roofs gleaming in the evening sun. His shoulders slumped wearily.  
   
“You know you have to, and to offer her the proper fines under the law, too. You do not want a feud with her brothers or her husband once she marries, do you? You risk causing division and much strife in the valley over this.”  
   
Ketil looked obstinate, his temper flaring again. “She deserved it!”  
   
“No, she did not!”  
   
Einnis drew a calming breath. “Even if she did, there must have been witnesses. They won’t support you. You have no case, Ketil. Here you have been lecturing me endlessly about my duties to the clan, and then you risk our honor and prosperity in this senseless manner? You know you need to apologize, or else leave the farm behind and travel abroad again. Is that what you want?”  
   
Ketil squirmed. “By Hel, let’s go get some ale, Einnis. It feels as if Thor is using his hammer hunting giants inside my skull, and my tongue tastes like goat dung. I can’t think.”  
   
Einnis shook his head and gripped Ketil’s shoulder. “Brother, you have to apologize and offer her the proper fines. Everything we’re trying to build for the clan may be wasted otherwise, everything you’ve worked for! Come to your senses! There will be another woman you can marry, since Helga isn’t willing. Ride back there now and end this.”  
   
He relented a little, seeing Ketil’s pained expression. “If you want to stay away from the valley for a while afterwards, you can ride directly on to Mjod with a message from me. I’m sure you will be well received there, Ketil.”  
   
Ketil looked at him questioningly, the hint of pleading in his bloodshot eyes a marked contrast to his strong and tall warrior’s frame.  
   
“Tell him that the farm has been finalized for his daughter to move into, describe the way it looks now.” Einnis made a sweeping movement indicating the houses, fences, and fields. “Greet Mjod and Arna from me, and agree a date for the wedding on my behalf. Sometime in fall, but not too late. She and I must finish moving in here before it’s time for the fall butchering.”  
   
Ketil was silent for a moment, but looked relieved. “I suppose, if you want me to…. Yes, I guess I could do that,” he eventually muttered, looking fixedly at the ground.  
   
“But whatever you do,” Einnis said with emphasis, staring at his brother insistently. “For the honor of every god and the love of every goddess, tell Helga you’re sorry and bow to her as much as you need to, and put any risk of feuding at rest!”  
   
He pushed a hard finger into Ketil’s chest, looked him firmly in the eye and raised his voice. “And while you’re at Mjod’s, stay off the ale!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Padraig** \- the Irish name for St. Patrick, 387 – 493. The name is fitting in more ways than one: When he was about 14 years old Patrick was captured from Britain by Irish raiders and taken as a slave to Ireland, where he lived for six years before escaping and returning to his family. After entering the Church, he returned to Ireland as an ordained bishop in the north and west of the island. By the eighth century he had come to be revered as the patron saint of Ireland.
> 
>  **Sverri Svarte** – The name means Sverri the Black (likely indicating the man’s hair). That Torgeirr names the boy after his mother’s father will mean that either Torgeirr's own father is still alive (and so not ready to “live again” through his grandson) or that Torgeirr is saving his father’s name for his first son born in legal marriage.
> 
>  **Ale makes another man** – Another old saying from Grettir’s Saga
> 
>  **Gavlpryd** – “Gable ornament”. This is the kind of pun the Norse enjoyed; – especially since Gunnar is deemed to be ugly and hence no “ornament“, so the name also becomes a satire on his looks, not just the one drunken mishap he had and the gable carvings he had made.
> 
>  **Lawspeaker** – A society where long written texts were still not available was dependant on men who knew the full law texts by heart and could recite them when required. 
> 
> **The Liberation of thralls** : Everything that Torgeirr explains here is according to the old Norse laws as eventually put down on parchment. Even after the one year’s service, and after paying his release fee and holding a prescribed “Liberation Ale Feast”, a previous thrall was bound to his master in many ways and through a number of obligations. If the conditions were broken he would revert to thralldom.
> 
>  **“A better burden may no man bear”, etc.** : Another word of wisdom from Havamal (this is one of the poem’s better-known stanzas, in fact). Both Havamal and other Norse wisdom poems keep going on and on about the dangers and indignities of drinking too much. Alcoholism clearly was a considerable Viking vice.
> 
>  **Padraig/Sverri’s two naming ceremonies** : The baptism is based on a few elements of the old Catholic baptism ceremony, while Torgeirr’s name-giving is in abbreviated accordance with the Norse traditions of the times. He ensures that there are witnesses to his acceptance of the boy as his son (if this ceremony had not taken place, he would not legally be the child’s father and the boy would belong to whomever owned the boy’s mother). However, little Sverri is still not a full member of Torgeirr’s clan by any means – for instance he will not have equal rights of inheritance with any children born to Torgeirr in legal marriage.
> 
>  **Payment of fines:** The Norse laws outlined fines to be paid either to the injured party or his/her clan for all possible crimes, up to and including premeditated murder. That was the only known punishment under the laws. It was up to the injured party whether he would accept payment of fines as recompense, however. If he didn’t, the matter was solved with swords. 
> 
> **The Viking homes and their bench spaces** : The main Viking house/hall was rectangular with one main room inside. The houses would vary significantly in size and level of adornment depending on the wealth of the owner. Building material varied too. On Iceland, where wood has to be imported, the houses were built mostly of peat/sod, though wood paneling would be used for the interiors. Elsewhere in Scandinavia, logs or wattle was the outside building material. 
> 
> The inside of these various Viking halls was surprisingly similar all over the “Viking world:” A main rectangular room with an open hearth in the middle, which was used for heat and for cooking on, even in big halls and manors, where there might also be an additional separate “fire-hall” (cooking house). The hall roof was supported by rows of wooden upright beams, and between those beams and the walls there were benches, which were used for sleeping on during the night, and for sitting on during meals and other daytime activities. At the far end of the hall would be a "high seat" and elevated bench space between decorated and /or finely carved upright poles, where the master and his family and guests would sit. Tables would be put up when needed and removed between meals, though the ordinary folks would take their food to the bench and eat it there, and wouldn't make use of a table.
> 
> Only the very noble and wealthy and their equally rich guests had their own beds in separate rooms, or closed-in bench spaces where they could retire and not be seen by all and sundry. Everyone else had to bed down in these communal sleeping quarters on the hall benches. It’s difficult to imagine now, but it’s a fair bet that modesty wasn’t high on the agenda.


	17. Chapter 17

One week after the arrival at Kaupang, everything was ready for the Liberation Ale feast. Torgeirr had agreed with his two Irish thralls about the best way of doing it with a minimum of disruption for all involved.  
   
The feast took place at Torgeirr’s clan’s house, and all Torgeirr’s men and his family members in town had been invited in order to ensure that the requisite number of witnesses were present, five for each of the thralls to be liberated. It wasn’t difficult finding enough witnesses, even among men who thought the notion of liberating thralls strange and possibly contrary to the gods’ will and intent. Good food and large quantities of free ale were temptations enough.  
   
Gunnar was to be one of the witnesses. He could not be left out when his house companions celebrated their freedom, though he could hardly be expected to enjoy the feast much with nothing more than a cup of water or sour milk in front of him. He had managed to keep himself sober since the day that Muirenn and Eoin moved into his house, and though he said little and grumbled now and then, he seemed to not only have reconciled himself to their presence and that of little Sverri, but to somehow secretly enjoy it.  
   
Muirenn kept the house in order, served good food and even saw to it that they had both butter and cheese with the porridge on the table. The empty house looked like a home with some pots and pans hanging on the wall, food bubbling over the hearth, a bucket of water and a pile of wood by the door, pillows and blankets on the benches, a painted storage chest in the corner and the child’s sleeping basket always close to where his mother was.  
   
It was a vast step forward for the wood-carver’s household.  
   
Muirenn had taken on some spinning for Torgeirr’s kinswoman, and would sit outside with the wool and spindle when the weather allowed, humming quiet lullabies to her son, and watching the activities outside the various craftsmen’s houses and workshops with keen interest.  
   
On the appointed day Eoin and Muirenn walked with a feeling of solemnity towards Torgeirr’s house along the narrow tracks between the Kaupang’s homes and storage sheds. Here and there wooden gangways had been provided so people wouldn’t have to step ankle-deep in mud when it rained. Muirenn was carrying Sverri in his basket held against her hip. The boy was sleeping soundly, sated from his recent meal and contentedly rocking back and forth in time with his mother’s steps.  
   
At a muddy stretch of pathway Eoin gave her a hand to ensure she didn’t slip and disturb the baby, and she looked up at him with a grateful smile. Muirenn had blossomed just in the few days since they arrived at Kaupang. The hustle and bustle of many people and all there was to see in the town had cheered her up and set her eyes to sparkling.  
   
At Torgeirr’s house the host was waiting with his men, and outside two fine rams stood tethered, voicing their discontent with loud persistent bleating.  
   
“Welcome, Myrunn and Jaran of Ireland,” Torgeirr said formally, heading up the group of assembled guests. “All has been made ready for this liberation feast that you have paid for, and the local godi has been here to confirm that everything has been arranged according to the laws. We can get right to it!”  
   
He stepped over to Muirenn and looked down to his sleeping son.  
   
“He’s doing well?” he asked in a low voice. ”And you too, girl? You seem to be thriving now much like a daisy in the sun!”  
   
Muirenn looked down, a blush tingeing her cheeks.  
   
“I like it here in Kaupang,” she said. “It’s not so lonely.”  
   
Torgeirr nodded and squeezed her shoulder briefly. “I’m glad.”  
   
He stepped back to where the rams where tied, and signaled to one of his free-men.  ”The sooner we get started, the sooner we can party!”  
   
Now Eoin came forward to receive a long sharp knife from Torgeirr’s man and bent to make a shallow cut in the neck of the ram. He gave the man the knife back, and they all stood by watching him make short shrift of cutting the animal’s throat, expertly bleeding it, and completely slicing off its head. In conclusion the ram’s head was placed on the ground between its lifeless feet.  
   
Eoin looked at Torgeirr. “I ask for permission to hold my liberation ale feast,” he said.  
   
Torgeirr nodded. ”Permission granted. Do you have the halsloysing?”  
   
Eoin pulled the little pouch tied to a string around his neck up of his tunic and stood still as Torgeirr cut the string, took the pouch, opened it and glanced down into it.  
   
“The proper sum has been paid and accepted,” he said gravely. “Jaran of Ireland has bought his freedom.”  
   
There were some scattered mutterings of approval from the assembled men.  
   
Eoin stepped back  and watched with a small smile as most of the same ritual was repeated for Muirenn.  
   
Torgeirr’s servants now quickly took the slaughtered rams away to cook them in the prepared and already steaming pits, but everyone else in the party went into the house and set about drinking. The quantities of ale provided was in accordance with the laws, which evidently had been written by very thirsty men.  
   
The feast continued through the evening, with many ribald tales and much loud laughter. Torgeirr saw to it that things did not get completely out of hand or too unseemly, never forgetting that little Sverri was present.  
   
The cheer rose to new heights once the freshly cooked and juicy ram’s meat was served on big platters. Everyone set to with gusto. In the middle of the meal Sverri awoke and let no-one doubt for a second that he was hungry too. Muirenn quietly went to sit at the end of the bench and laid the boy to her breast, pulling her long loose braid forward over her shoulder.  
   
To his surprise Eoin found that he enjoyed himself. Torgeirr’s men didn’t talk much to him, but neither were they disdainful, and the mood in the hall was relaxed and happy. The food was rich and good. The air was warm and pleasant, and not too smoke-filled. He couldn’t help laughing loudly at some of the wilder tales the men told. Now and then he looked over at Sverri and Muirenn, a free woman as of today, or as good as one. He closed his eyes and let the contented feeling of the occasion wash over him.  
   
Suddenly Muirenn screamed, and there was a loud crash from the bench where she was sitting. Eoin jumped up in worry and surprise, and saw Gunnar lying supine over the bench. He’d fallen like a log, and in his fall had managed to smash Sverri’s basket and to send it flying to land on the floor in front of Muirenn’s feet. Clearly Gunnar was back to his old drinking habit, and had quietly helped himself to many draughts of liberation ale. He was crawling on the floor, looking disoriented and struggling to climb back on his feet.  
   
The men laughed at him and started shouting mock-helpful advice, but Muirenn got to her feet, cradling Sverri firmly in her arms. She looked down on Gunnar in white-hot fury.  
   
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare endanger my little son like this with your drunken stupidity! Shame on you! Once more, and I will……. If Torgeirr doesn’t beat you black and blue, then I will do it myself! Fool! Behave yourself when my son is near, or else I’ll kick you right out of your own house for good and all, if it’s the last thing I ever do!”  
   
Everyone looked at her in surprise. She was speaking heatedly in gaelic, and no-one except Eoin understood her words, but neither the sentiment nor the general drift of her tirade could be misunderstood. She looked like a mother bear protecting her cub, glorious in her blazing anger, or a valkyrie ready to ride to war.  
   
Gunnar managed to crawl back on his feet and muttered something to her before shamefacedly stumbling out of the house. Muirenn sat back down, breathing heavily, and Torgeirr and the guests after a beat returned to the feasting. Eoin too remained where he was, since the danger had passed, surprised at this new Muirenn that he’d never seen before.  
   
A short while later Muirenn signaled that she wanted to return home, and he readily acquiesced. Together they took their leave of Torgeirr, and walked together to their current home, the night at fall’s beginning still retaining a certain summer dimness.  
   
They had left home as thralls earlier in the day, and were returning as a free man and free woman, protected under the laws in their own right. Both felt a warm inner glow at this thought. They looked at each other, smiling joyfully, needing no words to share this feeling. During the feast nothing had seemed as good and rich and fulfilling to them as the taste of freedom on their tongues.

\- x - 

The hov’s dim interior was lit with many torches and two sacred lamps, and smelled strongly of wood-smoke, damp earth and stale blood.    
   
Einnis’s face was fixed in solemnity as the godi brought forth the magnificent golden oath-ring and held it so that bride and groom could place a hand on it to swear their vows.  
   
“… and to this I swear, so help me Frey, and Njord, and the most powerful of gods....”  
   
Einnis listened to Arna’s calm voice reciting the marriage vow, and drew a deep breath, lowering his head. His brow furrowed in concentration as he too gave his solemn oath. He glanced at Arna, who stood with her head demurely bent under her magnificent veil, bit his lip and squared his shoulders. The godi nodded and stepped back, carefully placing the ring in its place in front of the hov’s wooden Frey statue.  
   
Turning back to the bride and groom, he held out the silver cup of marriage mead for the couple to toast each other. Einnis startled as if waking from a dream, and reached out to carefully lift the veil away from Arna’s face. She looked up at him in the flickering torchlight. Her face was serious, but her eyes were very bright.  
   
She toasted him and drank, looking fixedly at him over the rim of the cup. He received the cup from her, toasted her in turn with the required formality and drank, looking into her happy eyes. His hand twitched as she stepped closer and placed her hand over his, gripping the cup with him. The both of them turned to the inner sanctum to toast Frey, whose magnificent erect member was glistening darkly in the torchlight of the inner sanctum. The bride and groom bent their heads close together to sip from the cup that they now both held, and then bowed low before the god.  
   
The time had come to recite the ceremonial wedding prayer. Einnis spoke clearly and well, but it sounded as if his mouth was dry despite the recent sips of mead.   
   
“Hail to you, day...”  
   
Arna also spoke her part, her voice pitched lower than usual, ending on a breathless note as she reached the conclusion.  
   
“…And healing hands all life long!”  
   
Einnis righted himself and gave the finely wrought cup to the godi. He and Arna both stepped back, and then turned on their heels to face the guests present inside the hov’s dark and narrow walls. Mjod was there, and Ketil, Sigrid and Torgeirr, Arna’s three sisters and their husbands, and a goodly number of other clan members. They had all gathered to watch this important union, and to celebrate this new alliance between their two clans.  
   
Einnis’s features seemed stiff and his steps carefully measured as he walked past his family. Torgeirr patted him briefly on the back as he went by. He stepped out of the hov and walked among the guests and spectators to where the sacrificial animal was waiting, received the long sharp blot knife from the attendant, and looked at the horse. It stood peacefully, tossing its head a little and looking at Einnis with mild, patient eyes under the brown mane. Einnis looked away briefly as the knife sank home, and wasn’t completely prepared when the docile horse reared violently back in panic as its life ended. A muted gasp rose from the crowd of spectators as blood spurted into the air from the severed jugular, splattering over Einnis’s outstretched hands and staining the front of his sky-blue tunic, a thin streak of crimson like a knife-slash across his chest.  
   
With some struggling and the help of the hov’s attendant Einnis nevertheless managed to bring the horse down and to collect the required bowl of fresh blood to bring back into the hov. He dipped his hands in the bucket of water provided for such emergencies and dried them off hastily on a piece of cloth, his one hand still dripping crimson-tinged drops as he stepped back over the hov’s threshold and away from all the prying eyes, letting the door swing shut behind him.  
   
The godi accepted the bowl of blood from his hands and turned towards the gods’ statues, continually muttering imprecations as he smeared the blood liberally on each of the three wooden bases. The smell of the steaming fresh blood permeated the smoky air and made breathing increasingly difficult in the narrow room. Einnis resumed his place directly next to Arna, and unobtrusively pulled his new cloak firmly from over his left shoulder so that it covered his chest.  
   
Once the bowl was empty, the godi bent over it in the light of one of the sacred lamps, pondering the blood patterns and their significance, mulling over the crimson-stained silver vessel and its message. He looked up at Einnis and Arna. “I cannot see clearly what children your future holds, but there will be children in your lives. I see no ill omens. The signs are good.” There was a small sound from Arna, quickly stifled, and a low uncertain murmur of approval from the assembled guests.  
   
The ceremony was over, and Einnis and Arna walked hand in hand out of the hov. The crowd outside cheered mightily as was the custom, and each family member to exit from the hov into the crisp autumn air embraced both Einnis and Arna with many smiles and words of joy and congratulation.  
   
The bridal party’s ride back to Mjod’s farm was stately and full of pomp. Arna in her elaborately decorated dress and glittering jewelry reached out her hand to Einnis. They rode side by side, holding hands while of necessity looking ahead or away from each other as they waved to the cheering well-wishers along the way.  
   
Arna squeezed Einnis’s hand, her grip sure and surprisingly forceful, but her hand icy cold. The day was overcast, there was a bitter blustering wind to contend with, and she was wearing no concealing cloak. Without turning to his wife, Einnis responded in kind and pressed her hand, enclosing it in his own to warm her freezing fingers.  
   
In this way the young couple returned to Mjod’s farm to begin their married life with a magnificent wedding feast.  
 

\- x - 

   
Mjod had not stinted when preparing to marry off his beloved and youngest daughter. There was fine food aplenty, and the drinking horns overflowed with good ale, mead and even wine. The newlyweds and the many guests ate and drank their way slowly through an impressive range of courses. Many toasts were spoken, laughter and loud talk rang from every corner, and there was music and dancing in the yard. Einnis had changed his tunic to a spare one as soon as he returned to the farm, and now once more his clothes appeared as stately and costly as Arna’s. Several times the bride and groom had to leave the table hand in hand and go out to greet visiting neighbors, servants and free-men who had not been seated as guests in the main hall, but who wanted to see the couple in all their finery and to cheer loudly - and increasingly drunkenly.  
   
Sitting at the high table, Einnis now and then leaned forward to catch a glimpse of Torgeirr, who had been seated four places to his left. Torgeirr and Sigrid had been delayed in their journey to Mjod’s, and had only arrived the evening before the wedding. Due to their late arrival they were being housed at a neighboring farm. Einnis had barely had the opportunity to greet them at all, and there had been no chance to talk privately. Torgeirr had nevertheless managed to blurt out the news about the birth of his son, Sverri, happily grinning from ear to ear, and earning a cuff from Sigrid for speaking out of turn.  
   
Seated at the table Torgeirr was talking to the husband of Arna’s oldest sister, whose home was well south of Kaupang. Einnis lifted his mead horn to drink, slow and measured sips, his eyes seeking Torgeirr and then closing in concentration as he did so. It was barely possible to make out what Torgeirr was saying.  
   
“This fall has been a long row of feasts, one after the other  – I’m exhausted from good cheer! Everyone should be so lucky! First there was the naming feast for my son, Sverri – yes, his mother is Irish, he’s a strong, fine boy – and then we had a big Liberation Ale feast in Kaupang for Sverri’s mother and another Irish thrall of mine.” The other man said something Einnis couldn’t hear, and Torgeirr laughed. “No, I’m not freeing all my thralls, how would I ever manage my farms if I did? But I won’t let my son live in shame with an ambatt for a mother, and as for the other I suppose you could say he is her common-law husband. The boy will stay with them.”  
   
The other man said something in reply, clearly not applauding Torgeirr’s kindness towards thralls if his disapproving tone was anything to go by, but Torgeirr only chuckled. “Well, it has made for a lot of good cheer and more ale than I’ve ever had before, so it can’t be all bad! And here Mjod is treating us with hospitality and food and drink fit for the hall of Odin himself and his warriors, - cheers! - and of course the disablot is right around the corner! I swear I’m getting bloated, soon I won’t be able to ride a horse, I’ll be too heavy. I’ve been eating more than Thor at Trym’s wedding, and faster than Logi at Utgard-Loki’s eating contest!”  
   
Torgeirr laughed merrily and toasted the other man once more, and he on his side, obviously well into his cups, launched into a loud and lengthy tale about an especially rowdy feast he’d arranged to welcome his nephew back from his first summer of raiding. Torgeirr did not speak more than the occasional monosyllable for a good long while, and Einnis turned to attentively talk with Mjod and to once more praise the feast.  
   
Eventually Torgeirr excused himself and left the table to make a necessary trip outside. Einnis’s eyes followed him for a moment, then he too rose, muttering the proper polite excuses to his wife and his father-in-law, and hurried through the festive crowd. He caught up with Torgeirr just as they both rounded the corner of the hall, stepping along the muddy track behind the house to the men’s latrine trench. They were not alone. Other wedding guests in a hurry jostled them as they walked – the bowls of good strong ale put a constant strain on everyone’s bladders.  
   
“I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you yet. A strong son, it must make you proud!” Einnis said as they stood side by side, fumbling with the laces of their trousers. “I’m happy for you. Is your ambatt well?”  
   
“She’s fine, she’s moved to Kaupang and is living there now with Sverri and that Jaran of yours.” Torgeirr let out a small sigh of relief as his steaming yellow arch hit the bottom of the trench. “Aaah - by Thor’s big balls, that feels good!”  
   
Einnis didn’t reply while adding his equally strong and long-lasting stream.  
   
Torgeirr glanced at Einnis speculatively. “Your thrall bought his freedom with the gold you gave him. I don’t see why you sold him to me first. Why didn’t you just liberate him yourself, if that was the intention?”  
   
Einnis looked down, suddenly focused on doing up his laces.  
   
“I had my reasons,” he eventually muttered.  
   
Torgeirr shook his head and waited a beat. “Of course you did. Well, I won’t make you tell me what’s going on, but I hope you won’t spring many more surprises on me like that. I might get the notion you don’t trust me.”  
   
Einnis looked up sharply, biting his lip. “I do trust you, Torgeirr. I trust you more than I trust Ketil in this. Is that not answer enough, for now?” He turned and hurriedly stepped out of the way of a big man who heedlessly and frantically was rushing up to the edge of the trench, separating the two brothers-in-law for a moment.  
   
It was Torgeirr’s turn to be pensive, and they walked back through the din in the yard without speaking more together.  
 

\- x - 

   
Many more toasts were made in the hall, more food and drink were served, the day turned to evening and then to night. The bridal couple was looking pale and pinched and a little the worse for wear as the time finally came for their family members to light them to the bridal chamber, several of the men carrying newly lit torches. Many of the revelers were stumbling on their feet, some from strong drink and others from weariness. The mood was elated and raunchy, and suggestive advice and crude jokes rang out into the night as those walking nearest the couple jostled Einnis good-naturedly, and laughed uproariously.  
   
Arna kissed her father and each of her sisters and ducked through the door to their bridal chamber, but Einnis did as custom demanded and remained outside, his brothers-in-law and Ketil crowding around him and thumping him on the back, encouraging him to outperform their clan’s expectations of virility.   
   
“Now let loose for once and enjoy yourself,” Ketil slurred, leaning sideways heavily to whisper noisily in the general vicinity of Einnis’s ear. “There’s nothing better in the world than fucking a warm and willing woman, when all is said and done. After all those many lonely months with nothing but your hand for company, your cock can never get wet enough. Get to it, brother!”  
   
Torgeirr somehow managed to jostle Ketil to the side, laughing disarmingly and clapping Einnis on the shoulder in his turn. “Go ahead now, Einnis. You don’t want to keep Arna waiting any longer – she’s eager to know what all the fuss is about, I’ll wager, and she’s been patiently waiting for you too long as it is!”  
   
With that the door finally swung shut, leaving the drunken men and their salacious suggestions outside. Einnis quickly barred it, as was the custom. There was no knowing what dead-drunk wedding guests might later want to do or where they’d take it in their heads to enter.  
   
He squared his shoulders and turned to Arna. She was sitting on the bench in front of the blazing hearth and was in the process of calmly removing her many pieces of jewelry one by one, placing them in a wooden box on the bench by her side.  
   
She looked up at him and smiled tiredly. “Now I know what these lengthy wedding revels are good for – they are meant to make the bride so weary there’s no risk she’ll run from the groom when the time comes to lead the two of them to bed!”  
   
Einnis exhaled, his tense shoulders relaxing a little. “All things in equal measure, Arna. If the bride was to run, this groom would be much too tired to give chase,” he said, taking the few steps over to sit down heavily by her side, though not close enough to be touching her. Arna finished with the jewelry, then carefully removed her artfully tied veil, and next started taking down her hair, her eyes downcast now, and a bright and becoming blush on her face. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.  
   
“You do not look like you want to run,” Einnis observed.  
   
Arna’s long brown hair fell loose about her, cascading over her shoulders and floating down her back She shook her head in reply, glancing up at him and going serious. “If anything, I’ve wanted to run to you and not from you these many months. I’m not about to change my mind or have second thoughts now, Einnis Eldhug, when we’re finally alone together and I can have you to myself. The wait has been long, and the days have passed slowly since we last met.”  
   
“It has been a very long year, in truth,” Einnis agreed with a sigh, leaning back against the wall and briefly closing his eyes.  
   
Arna stood from the bench. She’d put her shoulder brooches aside with the rest of the jewelry: Arm-rings, finger-rings, strands of gold amulets and beads. Now her costly overdress, free of its straps, slithered down her body. It pooled around her feet in ripples of finest, clearest blue shot with shimmering gold, as if she was standing in a sunny summertime pond.  
   
“That’s better,” she murmured. “It’s felt so constraining, wearing all this fabric and the heavy jewels…..”  
   
She looked down over herself, the sheer linen underdress displaying the contours of her body and the shape of her breasts and hips to their full advantage. Einnis watched her as she stepped carefully out of the silken pond and went to fetch a jug and a wine cup that were waiting for them by the bed.  
   
“Arna…” he said thickly, uncertainly, going silent again while she poured wine into the green glass cup. Her train of linen whispered over the floor as she returned, sitting down so near him that their thighs were now touching. She silently toasted him and offered him the brimming cup.  
   
“I noticed that you didn’t drink much today during the hours of feasting,” she said, her voice low.  
   
“Neither did you.” Einnis said. “Ale makes men stupid and reckless, saying things they will regret, doing things they want undone. I wanted to be sure to govern my words and actions and to behave with honor at my own wedding.”  
   
He closed his eyes and drank deeply, downing the golden liquid in several thirsty gulps, before handing the cup back to her.  
   
“Yes,” she said, drinking in her turn, hurriedly swallowing the wine. “I’m glad you remember your pride. Too much strong drink, and we would have risked forgetting this – this day, and this night - and I don’t want that. I want to remember. I want to remember all of it.” A crimson flush spread over her cheeks and down her neck to where the white linen dress covered her skin. She met his eyes, took another draught, the last one, and exhaled. The cup was empty.  
   
“It is late……” She set the cup to the side and placed her hand palm down on his thigh.  
   
Einnis leaned down to unfasten the ties down the legs of his trousers. He took off his boots, loosened his silver-encrusted belt and put it aside, and pulled his second best tunic over his head. He rose to his feet, taking Arna’s hands in his own, and hesitantly pulled her up into his arms, a question in his eyes as they met hers. She quickly threw her thin arms around his neck and hid her face in the crook of his neck, burrowing into him.  
   
“Oh, Einnis. At last! At last we have come this far. I have longed for you, longed so to be with you, and the wait has seemed endless at times….”  
   
She pressed herself against him, offering her mouth up for kisses. Einnis bent down over her dutifully, his lips seeking hers. They stood in a tight embrace for a while, the kisses growing deeper and Einnis’s hold on Arna more insistent, her breasts pressing against his chest, and his slowly stiffening cock rubbing against her abdomen, where she could hardly fail to feel it despite the two layers of fabric that still separated them.  
   
At last Arna wrenched herself out of her new husband’s grip with an effort, flustered and breathless, and walked backwards to the bed, wiping a hand over her red and swollen lips. She sat down on the edge in front of the heaped down pillows and duvets.  
   
“You should undress,” she said plainly and evenly, her eyes bright and wide open though she was crimson, her fingers digging into the mattress. “No distance and no barriers between us from this day on - I want to see you, husband.”  
   
He glanced at her briefly and nodded, a stiff jerk of the head, and wordlessly pulled off his trousers, standing on the floor in bare feet and with a distinct bulge now showing under the long under-tunic. He held back for a moment, standing still, his eyes dropping to the floor before determinedly returning to look into hers. Right in front of her he pulled the last garment off and cast it aside.  
   
There was no sound in the room but a faint crackling of the fire on the hearth, and outside in the distance some over-excited wedding guests were hollering as they continued their revelries. The heated air made the tapestries on the walls flutter and the darkness in the corners come alive. Einnis’s skin pebbled helplessly with goose-bumps. In the flickering fire from the hearth golden-red light and blue-black shadows chased each other across his skin.  
   
Arna sighed, a soft little throaty sound that reached out to bridge the space between them. She stood and calmly opened the fine brooch that still held her under-dress closed at her throat, Einnis’s gift to her from one long year ago. The blue stone glinted brightly in the firelight as she removed the sheer linen dress, but the brown one looked dull, and the crimson drop in the middle seemed nearly black, like the dried scab on an old wound.  
   
Naked, she made the last gliding step to meet him, once more winding her arms about his neck, clinging to him and pushing up against him. He gasped at the sensation of her long hair flowing over his shoulders, her warm skin against his, her speeding heart outracing his beat for beat, and helplessly grasped her, pulling her even closer, his hands sliding down her back to find her buttocks, softness yielding to his rough caresses. He was grinding against her now, his breath loud and fast. Arna moaned and whispered his name, molding herself against him, her yielding body moving impatiently, her palms pressing and stroking his skin, her tongue seeking his and finding it. Their kisses at once turned deep and frantic. They stumbled backwards to the bed.  
   
She was pliant and warm, open and welcoming, she was sweetly curious and eager and right there, murmuring a few breathless endearments as she met him and answered him and held on, her gasps and his groans mingling and rising to the ceiling above them. She was soft where he’d become used to hardness, she was smooth where he had come to expect calluses, she was his to hold and to have and to possess, she smelled of fall flowers and healthy sweat and heated skin.  
   
She was his lawful wife in front of the gods and the whole wide world, and Einnis gratefully sank into the sheltering forgetfulness she offered, reveled in it and went under in it and for one brief blessed moment found release from everything that weighed on his heart and on his mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Halsloyising:** The term literally translated means “the freeing of someone’s neck” and is actually used in the laws concerning liberation of thralls. The master liberating a thrall is to take the “halsloysing” from either the neck of the thrall or the ram – it is believed it may have been a pouch with the sum of money in payment for the liberation. 
> 
> **Liberation Ale Feast:** This actually is the title of the “ceremony” in the laws, and it was legally required that the ceremony should take place with the elements that is described in the fic, including the cutting off of a ram’s head.
> 
>  **Thor at Trym’s wedding** : The epic poem “Trymskvida” tells how Thor disguises himself as Freya and travels to the giant Trym, pretending to arrive as the giant’s eager bride. His face hidden under the linen veil, Thor nevertheless manages to eat a whole ox, eight salmon, lots of dainty dishes and to drink three barrels of mead during the wedding proceedings. 
> 
> **Loki’s eating contest** : This comes from one of the myths that has Loki competing at speed-eating with a servant named Logi while visiting with a giant tellingly named Utgarda-Loki. Loki manages to keep up with Logi, but only barely, and afterwards it turns out that Logi has not only eaten all the food, but the table too, so he wins. (Ultimately it is however revealed that Loki has in fact been competing with fire, and nothing is more voracious than that). 
> 
>  
> 
> **Valkyries** : Minor female deities, shield-maidens, counted among the _Diser_. They ride to battle and decide which fallen warriors will be welcomed into Odin’s home Valhall after death.


	18. Chapter 18

Fall was the busiest time of the year in Kaupang. The hustle and bustle as people and goods moved between ships and shore was loud and exciting. Foreign tongues could be heard in the shouts along the wooden berths and in the talk along the shorefront trading halls and storehouses.  
   
This was the time for ships to return from the summer raiding, with a steady stream of warriors arriving back home, carrying looted goods and eager to spend their riches in the ale halls. Newly captured foreign thralls as well, disheveled and frightened, kept passing through town.  
   
Lords and farmers came to Kaupang too, in order to do all their trading before winter set in. They’d be buying salt to season and preserve food, and honey to make mead for the long dark months ahead. They bought new farm animals, grain, and thralls to increase the work force. In exchange they would sell that part of their farms’ produce that wasn’t required for the household at home: excess bales of woolen cloth, butter and cheeses, and the pelts from the previous winter’s hunting.  
   
There was a festive, hectic atmosphere in town. Every last person seemed to be rushing from one stall to the next, haggling and shouting, laughing and rolling their eyes in mock outrage at the prices. Buyers consumed untold quantities of ale in the ale halls while planning their trades and discussing their deals. The traders’ scales never rested, and the ale halls did a booming business, their customers spilling out onto the quays and into the narrow tracks between the workshops and warehouses. Fisticuffs and swordfights broke out as regularly as night follows day, but the ale halls kept guards who knew the use of their swords and how to protect their charges, and so did all the rich tradesmen.  
   
The trade in luxury goods was also tempting those who could afford it. Skilled craftsmen and silken-tongued tradesmen kept themselves busy. Intricately carved bone combs, bright jewelry ranging from simple silver pieces to elaborate gold torques, fine foreign cloths shimmering with bright colors, soft dyed leather shoes and boots, long warm shaggy cloaks decorated with brightly-hued ribbons, even wine from southern lands for the lords’ high tables – all of it could be had in the stalls and workshops along the shore.  
   
This was also the time to negotiate craftsmen’s services and prices, and to agree on their assignments for the upcoming season. It had been a good year, and the local lords and chieftains had riches to spend. Smiths, coopers, carpenters, shipwrights, stone carvers - and certainly wood carvers - were all in demand.  
   
Gunnar had started working fairly steadily once he sobered up after the Liberation Ale feast. So taciturn that he more than once ignored his companions completely, he stayed near his workshop. The wood carvings he put on display met with much approval among prospective buyers, and he gained a small crowd of spectators whenever he sat outside carving new pieces for sale. Word spread that the famed Gunnar Gavlpryd was working again, and he attracted eager attention. Small pieces such as bed poles, tent poles, and the backs of wooden chairs demonstrated to the world that his abilities and his skills were intact and had even evolved with the times.  
   
Despite his heavy drinking over several years, Gunnar’s hands were still steady and sure, and when he carefully felt and examined new material it was in the manner of a tender lover caressing the skin of his beloved. He somehow seemed to sense the forms and figures hidden in the wood, and could call them forth with his knives, chisels and gouges. Intricate patterns of interlinking animals biting their tails, long-necked intertwining dragons and scenes from the tales of heroes, gods and giants appeared under his sensitive fingers and keen eyes.  
   
For some time Gunnar seemed to tread lightly around Muirenn, and she was equally wary of him, but they reached a comfortable truce once Gunnar carved and polished a beautiful and intricate wooden toy for little Sverri. It was a fine horse with head held high, mane and tail flying, and eight legs, - Odin’s proud horse Sleipner. Sverri loved his toy and would calm down whenever he could hold on to it and wave it about or suck on one of the hooves, gnawing at it with his pink toothless gums. Muirenn couldn’t help smiling whenever she saw the boy sleeping with his Sleipner tucked close.  
   
Eoin for his part took his place helping Gunnar with the carving, and found that he enjoyed doing so. Gunnar’s broodiness and long silences did not bother him. Instead, it gave him space to think and to observe, and to try his own hand at simple carving assignments without constant interference or criticism.  
   
He went with the wood-carver to examine new material in the lumberyard, oak and beech and yew, and listened attentively to Gunnar’s haggling over prices and his comments about qualities, trying to learn as much as possible. He also started preparing new pieces to be carved, smoothing and cutting them the way he’d used to do for his father, but finding it a much more rewarding task this time around. He was earning his own money now from helping Gunnar, and was learning the craft besides.  
   
Eoin bought himself a plain but serviceable sword, and on Gunnar’s suggestion paid one of the ale hall guards, a tall man, scarred from battles and raids abroad, and known for his skill with a sword, to teach him the rudiments of swordmanship. When traveling to customer’s farms and manors Gunnar and Eoin might be bringing valuable merchandise and tools along, and would also have to carry silver. They would need to be able to defend themselves. Eon practiced stances and moves every evening when the light became to dim for wood carving. It renewed in him a sense of accomplishment and pride. He was preparing his own firm ground to take a stand on as a free man even among the fight-prone Norse.  
   
Muirenn in the meantime kept the house as before, tended to little Sverri, and continued taking on spinning work. She too enjoyed earning her own way. Wealthy patrons started seeking Gunnar out to make arrangements with him for major projects to be undertaken during the next spring, such as the carving of ship stems, sleighs or new high seat poles. When they arrived, Muirenn would welcome them politely, show them inside and serve them ale, and see to it that they were comfortably seated. She remained in the room, listening intently to the men’s talk, and noting how negotiations were carried out and the contracts reached. Her spoken Norse was steadily improving.  
   
One day when Eoin and Gunnar came back from the lumberyard, Muirenn’s hair had changed from its usual brown to a deep red that shimmered in the light. Muirenn met Eoin’s eyes and grinned mischievously.  
   
“I discovered henna at the market by the shore,” she said delightedly, and Eoin laughed.  
   
He went to pick up little Sverri who was waving his chubby arms in his basket, and held the boy on his knees, resting him in the crook of one arm. Eoin moved Sleipner back and forth just out of the boy’s reach, watching Sverri batting to get at the toy, his tiny fists flailing. Muirenn was humming to herself as she flipped her long red braid back over her shoulder and bent to stir the boiling pot hanging over the hearth. Gunnar snored loudly where he had settled down on the bench to take a nap while waiting for the evening meal to be finished. His house-companions had gotten so used to this constant thunderous sound that they barely noticed it anymore.  
   
Outside it was raining, and the fall winds had turned chill. But in their small house there was fire and light, food and warmth, comfort and companionship.  
   
Eoin spoke Gaelic nonsense to Sverri, rocked him and smiled down at the boy, noticing how very like he was to Torgeirr. There could be no doubt at all who the boy’s father was. He looked at Muirenn and at Gunnar, and felt a strange sense of relief and contentment. Perhaps this was no more than cold comfort, perhaps the contentment was hollow, lacking the core that would have made it whole and true and real, but it was contentment nevertheless. In all matters save the single most important one Eoin’s life had taken a turn for the better.  
   
He sighed, and gently let Sverri have his Sleipner back. The boy would soon enough learn that there were some wishes that could only be fulfilled through much effort and many pains, some hopes that might too long remain elusive dreams – perhaps forever. No need to start teaching him such sobering life lessons before he could even walk.  
 

\- x - 

   
Shortly thereafter there was a big buzz throughout all of Kaupang when several longships built for speed and war, one truly magnificent Drakkar among them, sailed up the fjord to berth along the wooden quays. The Drakkar with its gaping gilded dragon’s head in the stem was the largest ship Eoin had ever seen. It was visibly scarred from axe-blows and the use of grappling hooks along its sides, was missing some of the shields protecting the gunwale, and was soot-marked too. It nevertheless sailed proudly and true. Warriors poured over its gangplank, some clearly wounded, a few of them carried ashore on their shields, but most seeming in high spirits, shouting and singing.  
   
The news spread like wildfire through Kaupang. The king and his men had met king Eystein in a large and decisive sea battle and had completely defeated him!  
   
A collective sigh of relief went up from the townspeople. They had constantly lived with the risk of an attack from Oppland during this last year. Now that danger was over, at least for a while, and it was likely they would have peace.  
   
The king had left his fleet already and had returned on horseback with his guard to one of his manors for the winter. His remaining men would be laying the ships up, hauling them ashore, repairing the damages, and seeing to it that they were properly covered against the snow and cold and foul weather, ready to be tarred and set afloat again in spring.  
   
Eoin and Muirenn stood together with many other curious spectators, watching the ships and the bustle of men around them. The proud long warships and the many men with helmets and swords couldn’t fail to look menacing to those who had once been attacked, torn from burning homes and carried off by Norse warriors in similar ships. The sight sent tremors born of old fear and helplessness through both Eoin and Muirenn. At the same time they were grateful and relieved to learn that the danger of an enemy attack on Kaupang was over for the time being. The threat of such attacks had hovered over the trade-town like a thundercloud all season, now that there was open war.  
   
That night, as he quietly spoke his evening prayers before going to bed, Eoin bent his head to thank the Lord humbly, with a full and grateful heart, for the way the fortunes of war had turned. He cared but little for this or that minor king and their squabbling in this foreign land, except that this was Einnis’s land, and Einstad would have been an all too easy and tempting target for enemy warriors traveling on ski. King Eystein’s defeat kept Kaupang secure, but more than that and just as importantly – it meant that Einnis would be safe from attacks this winter, up in the lonely woods of his farm.  
 

\- x - 

   
Einnis and Arna had moved north as soon as their wedding was at an end. They had much to see to and put in proper order before the winter. With them rode Ketil and such servants, thralls and free-men as belonged either on Ketil’s farm and had followed him south, or would be moving to Einstad with the new farm’s master and mistress. In addition, Arna’s flocks of cattle and sheep were driven north, being necessary in order to get the Einstad household up and running.  
   
Pack horses carried other parts of Arna’s dowry, and the remainder would follow once early winter had brought enough snow for the goods to be transported on sleighs. Mjod intended to send freight sleighs with men who could stay at Einstad over the winter and serve as guards. He did not want his youngest and favorite daughter to live on a lonely farm in the far-off woods without sufficient men-at-arms for protection against king Eystein’s attacks.  
   
Fall proved a hectic time for the Einstad newlyweds. There was much yet to do to bring the farm up and running, and they went to work with a sense of purpose, building their life and future together.  
   
Arna set up her looms, organized her kitchen and the food stores, oversaw the work of the servants and thralls, and saw to the cheese-making, butter-churning, grain-grinding and the endless number of other chores necessary in cooking for and feeding the now considerable household on the once so empty place. She went through all the chests of goods that she’d brought north with her, one by one, and saw to the proper storage or use of all items.  
   
Einnis in the meantime ensured that the hay of the outfields was brought into the barns, and continued many tasks around the farm to finalize its construction and to ensure that animals and people could be fed during the long lean months ahead. He made several trips between Einstad and his brother’s farm, little by little moving up the goods, gear and animals that belonged to his part of the inheritance. Horses and cows, pieces of furniture, tapestries, bushels of grain, barrels of ale and salted meat and fish; - moving all of it was enough to keep him occupied for many long days. Then there was miscellaneous carpentry work that remained to be done, and also more fences to erect around the property and the outfields.  
   
At night Einnis and Arna fell into bed, exhausted but also content with their separate work, joint achievements in creating a solid farm, a home that would prosper and thrive. They whispered to each other in the darkness of the boxed-in bench, talking of their day and the plans for the next one, murmurs and light kisses turning to caresses and to coupling. Arna proved a passionate woman, inventive and enthusiastic in bed now that she at long last was allowed the joy of married pleasures. Einnis needed do little more than follow where she eagerly led, except for those times when he flipped her over and pulled her up on her knees so he could mount her from behind, rocking to completion with forceful rapid thrusts.   
   
Weary from the day’s work and spent by passion, Arna usually fell asleep immediately afterwards, a murmured endearment and “good night” barely escaping her lips in time.  
   
Einnis would sometimes remain awake for a while, using one finger to gently stroke Arna’s naked body, letting it slide downwards from her throat and between her breasts, trailing it over her soft stomach and lightly touching the fur between her legs before returning back up to the hollow of her throat in a slow, repeated motion, up and down. Arna would moan and shift in her sleep under the covers, arch her body slightly and spread her legs, sensuously and instinctively giving him full access to her slumbering body. He kept charting the living presence next to him in the night, so warm and healthy and relaxed, sensing every deep breath, feeling the smooth sweaty skin with his fingertip. In a strange mood, his hand moving up and down in dreamy and absentminded motion, Einnis would stare fixedly into the darkness with wide-open eyes and sigh from the bottom of his heart.

\- x - 

   
Before they knew it, slaughtering season was upon Einstad, and after that the disablot, which was celebrated with particular care in every part of the ceremonials. The very first blot on the farm needed to go smoothly, and to properly observe every last little rite in order to honor the goddesses and powers of renewal. Any mistakes or omissions might threaten the future of the farm and the prosperity of its people. But everything went according to tradition, and everyone on the farm enjoyed the blot feast and the boiled horseflesh in high spirits.   
   
Once the first proper snow fell and remained on the ground without melting, Einnis frequently took men and dogs with him and skied up into the mountains to hunt. Einstad did not have the usual stores of food that a full cycle of sowing and harvesting would have brought, and it was necessary to replenish the diet with meat. The hunters brought down both reindeer and moose. They set snares for grouse, and also hunted for pelts when the opportunity presented itself.  
   
Now and then the hunt would take them too far from home, and Einnis stayed in the woods or on a mountain slope overnight in a simple lean-to, hastily erected from spruce branches and piled snow. On such occasions the men and dogs slept in a heap for warmth and protection. Einnis therefore rarely was out in the woods by himself, but the fates willed that for once he was seeing to snares and traps on his own when he came across one section of forest where he and Eoin had felled especially many pines the previous winter.  
   
Everything was quiet now, a chill wintry calm, all traces covered up by snow. There were no tracks on the cold, white ground, no sign of the closeness and spirit of companionship shared by the team of two that had brought the trees down and taken them away. There was a soft, sorrowful rush of wind in the branches of the few remaining pines, sending some stray snowflakes sailing haphazardly to earth. The stumps of the felled trees were like dead or crippled sentinels, their bones broken, decapitated and ravaged, testament to the loss of forest giants that had stood tall not long ago.  
   
After a moment’s contemplation Einnis let himself glide forward, moving in among the wooden tree stumps. They were all covered by wind-whipped snow shrouds, but on the lee side were weeping bright amber tears of resin from the fatal axe blows, strands of gold trailing over the brown rough bark.  Einnis touched his finger to one such sticky patch, sniffing the residue on his fingertip. He looked over to the nearest remaining tree, reached out and crushed some of its pine needles, then pinched off a little twig and brought it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled the strong and frosty scent.  
   
In the distance a woodpecker suddenly set up a persistent drumbeat that echoed hollowly but loudly through the woods as the bird relentlessly hammered a dead tree for the insects hidden in the decaying wood. Einnis startled as if brought out of a dream. He looked around the site at the broken stumps of once proud trees and the silent shroud of snow, and heard the whispered wails on the wind. Forcefully he pushed off with his staff, rapidly gliding forward, speeding up to leave the clearing behind.  
   
He did not once look back, but he had not moved far through the woods before he stopped in his tracks abruptly, backing up against an ancient pine with a groan. Leaning against the bole, head tipped backwards and eyes fixed on distant tree tops, he fumbled the laces of his trousers open under his heavy woolen cloak, pushed the material aside and hesitated briefly before taking himself in hand. He closed his eyes as his right hand set up a firm pace, moving rhythmically, generating the friction and heat that he craved.  
   
Einnis’s left hand with its lingering scent of pine needles and resin floated back up to his face, covering his nose as he wound his way towards release. He moaned, thrusting again and again into his hand, his pelvis straining forward in abrupt jerks, muscles tensing, and turned his face sideways so that the rough bark of the old tree scraped his cheek. He came with a tortured moan, the globs of semen splattering noiselessly into the pristine snow in front of his feet and immediately disappearing from view, white sinking into white.  
   
For a little while Einnis remained still, slumped against the tree, head down, breathing heavily. Eventually he righted himself and beat the tree bole with his closed fist and a loud shout, an inarticulate sound of anger and desperate frustration. But the cold winter woods and bleak lonely distances gave him no answer and no sign. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Drakkar** : “Dragon, serpent”, usually the largest ships in the fleet of a viking king, and were supposed to stand out to symbolize his superior rank. It had a dragon’s head in the stem. 
> 
> **Looms and weaving:** Spinning and weaving took up large parts of every Norse-woman’s life. Each farm produced it own everyday cloth. The looms used were vertical, its wooden framework leaning against the wall. The weaver would stand while working on the loom. The warp threads were tensioned by means of stones tied to the threads at the bottom. Such warp stones are among the most common finds in archeological excavations at Norse sites. 
> 
> **Viking wood carving.** The very intricate and busy wood carvings of the era serve to characterize Viking art, and the best pieces clearly were carved by masters in the field. Google "OSeberg find" if you are interested in seeing some examples of carved objects from the era. Do remember though that those objects are more than thousand years old, and most of them have lain long in the earth and have been subjected to various conservation techniques. Now they look dark brown, but when they were made there would be much more life and nuance to the objects and the wood, and most of them in addition to the elaborate patterns were painted in bright colors.


	19. Chapter 19

Einnis returned home from seeing to the snares late in the day, spent and weary, to find the courtyard filled with loaded work-sleighs. Thralls were taking the sleigh horses to the stables, and many men were standing about. The remaining part of Arna’s dowry had arrived.  
   
Mjod sent his daughter and her husband greetings and well-wishes, and also sent word about king Eystein’s defeat. Both Einnis and Arna saw these tidings as cause for celebration. Without having talked much about it, they had been keenly aware that the farm’s location far from the valley represented a risk of enemy attacks. That danger was less now, though they still needed to keep guards about the property. Outlaws and men cut loose and adrift from King Eystein’s service might try to raid any lonely farm that didn’t demonstrate its ability to fight them off.  
   
Nevertheless the news was very welcome, and that evening good food and the best ale filled the Einstad tables for all to enjoy.  
 

\- x - 

   
Shortly before Yule Arna proudly told Einnis that she was with child, if the signs were anything to go by. She glowed as she gave her husband the good news, and they huddled together in delight under the duvets and covers, feeding off each other’s warmth in a winter that had otherwise turned exceptionally cold. Come midsummer they would be parents, the gods willing, and would be presenting the clan with a new generation to carry its honor into the future and follow where the forefathers had led the way.  
   
The two of them had already decided against traveling the long way down the valley to the midwinter blot – it was hardly right for the master and mistress to leave the household behind the very first time Yule would be drunk on Einstad. They were much surprised, though, when they welcomed Ketil a few days before the celebrations. He came on ski, only accompanied by a few of his men, and voiced his intention to drink Yule with his brother and sister-in-law and to spend the whole week at Einstad.  
   
After their wedding Einnis and Arna had seen but little of Ketil. Most times when Einnis had visited Ketil’s farm in the course of that fall his brother had been gone, out hunting for food or for pelts. Mistress Ragnhild had stated her opinion about Ketil’s seeming neglect of his farm in no uncertain terms, but Einnis had let it go, understanding well enough that there might be a reason for Ketil to want to lie low and stay out of sight for a while.  
   
Now Ketil joined them at Einstad instead. Though he congratulated Einnis and Arna with a genuinely pleased smile once he heard that his sister-in-law was carrying an heir for the clan, he otherwise brought very little cheer. He seemed moody and morose and spoke very little. His many strenuous hunting treks had caused him to shed weight, and he looked fit and strong again, but now he took every opportunity to nurse a bowl of Yule ale, downing the strong drink in surprising quantities. Where ale previously had made him loud and rash and frequently full of mirth, he now instead sank into sour grumbling, scowling at anyone who happened to be nearby.  
   
At table during their first shared evening meal Einnis asked for news from the valley. Ketil laughed mirthlessly, casting a glance in his brother’s direction before glowering down into his ale bowl.  
   
“I just heard the news that Helga Hauksdottir is getting married,” he said, more than a hint of scorn and disdain in his voice. Einnis looked to his brother sharply.  
   
“It had to happen. Who is she marrying?”  
   
Ketil laughed again, a loud unpleasant noise. Helga had accepted the proposal of Ulv Sigurdarson, the middle son of one of the most influential chieftains in the valley. She would be the daughter-in-law of a wealthy, mighty and well respected man.  
   
“The boy is barely 18 years old!” Ketil blurted, suddenly fuming. “A mere stripling, not yet dry behind the ears! That is what she deems to be better than me. What a joke! What an insult! I sure hope for her sake that at least he has a big cock and enough stamina in bed to satisfy a slut for a wife!”  
   
Einnis sighed and shook his head at his brother.  
   
“The hasty tongue sings its own mishap, if it be not bridled in! Ketil, my men are listening. You shouldn’t speak so carelessly and disrespectfully. Helga is in her right to marry whom she chooses, and as for her intended, he is four years older than I was when I took over many responsibilities as master of our farm. As far as I have heard, Ulv shows great promise. He is old enough.”  
   
Ketil grinned wildly. “Old enough to fuck her at all hours of the day, yes – but that’s all. I guess there’s no doubt about who’ll be wearing the trousers in that marriage. When they’re not in bed I suppose her husband will do well enough down on the floor as a playmate for Helga’s daughter!”  
   
Arna drew a sharp breath, and Einnis rose from the table.  
   
“Ketil, you are drunk and you do not know what you’re saying,” he stated loudly and clearly. “Go to your bed now and rest. Sober up – we’ll talk more when you can govern your mind and your words!”  
   
Ketil looked belligerent and ready to protest, but he wasn’t too drunk to belatedly realize that every head in the room had turned towards the high table. A hush had fallen over the hall.  
   
He rose and stepped down to the floor, a lopsided grimace on his face, managing to keep upright though he moved unsteadily. “You bore me, little brother, with your righteous life and your pompous sayings.”  
   
He laughed, harshly and gratingly. ”A merry Yule to all!” With that he was gone from the hall, and Einnis sat back down, reached for the mead horn and gulped down a goodly draught. His eyes met Arna’s worried glance, and he shook his head in exasperation.  
   
“I wish he would put this matter of Helga behind him and look ahead to new possibilities. There are other fish in the sea,” he muttered, a note of worry and doubt creeping into his voice.  
   
Arna didn’t reply, but lowered her eyes and drew an unsteady breath. They sat for a beat in silence while the hall around them returned to normal, men and women turning to their food and drink, talk and laughter rising over the benches and tables.  
   
The remaining days of Yule Ketil held his peace, drank little and spoke less. He apologized to his brother and sister-in-law for his crude behavior, but there seemed to be no honest will to change his ways behind his formal, distant words. His presence put a damper on the festivities for Arna and Einnis, but by and large the people of Einstad were well pleased with the celebrations, the food and drink and the general good cheer.  
   
They all toasted Frey and happily drank to árs ok friðar, a good year and peace, with high hopes for the coming year.    
 

\- x - 

   
When the year turned towards midwinter and Yule-time approached, Kaupang became another town, a mere silent ghost of its boisterous summer self.  
   
The traders had left, most of the markets were closed, and lords, warriors and farmers alike had returned with servants, thralls and kin to their homes in hills and dales and along the coast. Some few craftsmen, one of them Gunnar Gavlpryd, stayed in town on permanent basis, and a few lords stayed too with their families and households. Otherwise the houses were locked down and barred, the market stalls were empty shells, the trade tents folded and stored, and the storage houses and the wharfs were nearly deserted.   
   
Gunnar had to protect his eyesight and didn’t work as much now that there were only a few hours of daylight to be had. He hadn’t started drinking again, but kept to his bed for long hours, burrowing down into the blankets and sleeping like a bear in its den.  
   
The weather had turned cold, and snow blanketed the town and its environs. Muirenn and Eoin had more time on their hands. As in their first weeks together they would sit talking, or merely enjoying each other’s company while the fire blazed on the hearth and the snow fell outside. Little Sverri was big enough now to push himself up on chubby arms to look around when Muirenn placed him on a blanket on the floor, and he had started crawling a little. Muirenn looked at her son with pride, and was careful about getting enough to eat so that her milk would not dry up. She wanted to nurse the boy through winter if she could.  
   
Gunnar had been invited to drink Yule at a manor near Kaupang, a place where he would be carving new high seat poles come spring. Admonishing Eoin to come get him if he hadn’t returned in five days, Gunnar set off, his eyes blazing with irrepressible thirst and his hands shaking with want. He had stayed sober for months – now the desire to drink his fill burned inside him like an all-consuming fire. Eoin had no choice but to let him go. Gunnar was a free man and his own master, and could not be dissuaded.  
   
Thus completely left to their own devices, Eoin and Muirenn prepared for their Christ mass celebrations.  
   
During their months in Kaupang they had occasionally happened to meet Irish thralls who belonged either to the local manors or to traders. Most of them had since left town with their masters for the winter, but a very few remained. Eoin would gladly have asked them to join him and Muirenn in celebrating the birth of the Lord and in giving thanks on the holy night. But he did not dare make such a bold move. Gunnar had warned his Irish companions in no uncertain terms that they needed to be very careful about making any sort of contact with their countrymen. It might anger the powerful lords and thrall-owners. Though thralls were allowed to speak among themselves, and were given some freedom to move about as long as they performed all their heavy and time-consuming chores, the fact that Jaran and Myrunn had been freed could all too easily be considered a threat to the very order of society.  
   
On Christ mass eve therefore, Muirenn and Eoin had the house to themselves. They spent the early evening enjoying festive food that Muirenn had taken great care in preparing, and the very best ale that Eoin had been able to buy. After the meal they sat side by side on the bench, content, drowsy and pensive.  
   
“My mother used to sing hymns while we waited for the holy night and got ready to go to church to celebrate the mass,” Muirenn said, a melancholic note creeping into her voice as she looked back on the family life she’d been torn away from. “She had the sweetest voice…. The sound of it used to ring like a bell in my head while we walked to church. My family carried torches on the way, and so did everyone else. It looked like a river of light in the darkness, moving up to the church.”  
   
“There were lights everywhere in the monastery too,” Eoin mused, his mind’s eye turning to years gone by. He could call forth the details, memories of sights and sounds and the solemn and joyful mass in its splendor. Candlelight, incense, voices rising to fill the church with praise, happy faces. He could see it all so clearly, and was able to describe it in vivid detail to Muirenn, who listened raptly.  
   
“How I wish that we could have been there tonight, at home to greet loved ones and see those lights,” she murmured, looking over to Sverri’s basket where the boy was sleeping soundly. Eoin nodded, finding no words but knowing that none were needed.  
   
They sat quietly next to each other, staring into the flames on the hearth and contemplating the strange and surprising twists of fate that had led them far away from home and from the remembered masses of their youth, had taken them through fear and thralldom and onwards to freedom and new beginnings in this far foreign land.  
   
Eoin let his mind wander, step by step through the last year, all the way back to his lonely Christ mass in the stable one year and a lifetime ago. He remembered the tranquility and deep peace of mind he’d felt back then, the certainty that the Lord had guided him in mysterious ways to where he needed to be, to Einnis - that their joining was His will.  
   
This last year truly had brought him the heights of ecstasy and the depths of despair. He knew in his heart that Einnis would always remain a constant in his life, a guiding star over the turbulent seas that he’d been struggling to navigate ever since Einnis set him adrift. But though that light was always calm and bright, the star was distant now, and small, a mere pinprick in the sky. Clouds of doubt and worry were drifting in, threatening to obscure that far-off brilliant point.  
   
Eoin’s days, and even more so his nights, had grown long and weary, and his heart sometimes felt heavy as a stone with longing and uncertainty. He had heard the Norse talk of fate, which seemed to be their heathen way of describing God’s unfathomable will. He knew that Einnis was his fate, but fate could prove hard and seem unfair and even cruel. The Lord provided no assurance of happiness here on earth, gave no promise of certain joy except to pure souls welcomed into Heaven.  
   
Every day without Einnis was a test of Eoin’s resolve, his trust and unshakable faith, and God had time enough. Eoin could only pray and humbly hope that the Lord did not have the ultimate test in store, the loss of Einnis for ever.  
   
He wanted to make the sign of the cross over his heart, but his hand felt strangely heavy. It remained immobile in his lap.  
   
Next to him Muirenn sighed, coming out of her own reverie. She moved closer to Eoin and leaned her head on his shoulder.  
   
“I believe that we may well be the lucky ones, we two, when all is said and done,” she whispered wonderingly. ”To think what might have been…. “  
   
Eoin nodded slowly, acknowledging the simple truth in her words. He placed his arm around her shoulders companionably, holding her close, wordlessly communicating his understanding.  
   
She drew a breath, and suddenly pressed herself against him, turning towards him and closing her eyes. Eoin looked into Muirenn’s prettily flushed face, watched the light of the fire playing over her features as her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. Without any conscious decision on either’s part, the two of them drifted together, leaning in gently till their lips met in a tentative, bashful kiss. One kiss, and then another. And another.  
   
Muirenn reached for one of Eoin’s hands, pulled it in between their bodies and placed it firmly on her left breast, pushing up against his palm, moving even closer with a gasp.  
   
“Oh dear Lord, it’s been so long….” she whispered breathlessly.  
   
For a few brief moments Eoin went with the flow, reveling in the warm and willing body straining against his, signaling its availability and offering oblivion, comfort and relief. But he couldn’t do it. Not tonight of all nights, not when he’d just relived last year’s Christ mass and the silent vows he’d made, the beauty and joy that Einnis brought him, the surety of the Lord’s purpose. He wrenched himself free from her, drew a hand across his mouth, pulled away and gestured apologetically.  
   
”Muirenn, I’m sorry. I can’t…. I’ve sworn vows…. I can’t. I can’t do this, not on this night.”  
   
Muirenn sat up, blushing scarlet and trying in vain to regain composure, struggling to arrange her hair and clothes.  
   
“Oh Eoin, I know, I know, forgive me. But it is so difficult.....”  
   
They sat for a moment, at a loss, staring at each other. The ground had suddenly shifted under them, and the road ahead seemed to lose itself in rocky and treacherous terrain. Then Muirenn rose to her feet with a brittle little laugh. “Sleep cures all ills, so they say. I guess it’s worth trying. Good night, Eoin.”  
   
He nodded, tacitly acknowledging her retreat, but himself remained seated on the bench late into the night. He put another log on the dying fire. So many twists and turns in his life’s strange path!  
   
He had heard the tale of Loki, bound on sharp rocks, a snake over his head dripping slow drops of venom, and of Loki’s patient wife Sigyn, standing by his side until the end of the world as she held a bowl to collect the poisonous drops and protect her husband. Waiting for Einnis and staying true to what they shared seemed to be asking for Sigyn’s kind of selfless patience from Eoin. But he was only a man, no saint, and no magic-wielding hero with otherworldly powers.  
   
He supposed Einnis surely would be married by now, maybe even on his way to becoming a father already. He’d be more elusive and inaccessible than ever. And yet……..  
   
Carefully ensuring that Muirenn was asleep, listening to her even breaths, Eoin quietly rose and tiptoed over to his chest of modest belongings. Digging to the very bottom he pulled out a canvas-wrapped parcel, opened the ties, shook out the contents, and spread it over his lap as he sat back down. He let his hand slide over the cloth, feeling the familiar texture the way he would have caressed a lover’s skin. Einnis’s blue wool cloak, Eoin’s secret and tangible connection to their time together, to the snowy woods of Einstad and the smithy in the field, where this blue cloak sometimes covered them and helped keep them warm through icy winter nights when they slept together, breathing the same air, skin touching skin and hearts beating in perfect time.  
   
He lifted the cloak reverently and bent down to hide his face in it, searching for the smell of that distant time in the woods. But the scent of its one-time owner was not there anymore. The cloak smelled of stale dust and mold now, having lain so long rolled up and hidden away at the bottom of the chest. Snow and fresh sweat, semen and musk, wood-smoke and pine needles – all gone. Only the memories lingered on.  
   
Eoin nevertheless pressed the cloak to his face once more, rubbing his cheek on it and closing his eyes as images and emotions flooded back, overwhelming him with their intensity.  
   
“Merry Yule, Einnis,” he whispered softly into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **“The hasty tongue... etc”** : The quote is a saying from stanza 29 of Havamal.


	20. Chapter 20

In the days after Christ mass the mood in Gunnar’s little house was awkward, however much Eoin and Muirenn tried to get back to where they’d been, pretending that nothing had changed between them. A hint of distant politeness marred their talk, and both felt hurt and unhappy at their seeming inability to recapture the closeness they had shared these past many months.  
   
Muirenn busied herself with Sverri, who was suffering from a cold and was fretful and fussy. Eoin found tasks around the house – chopping wood, practicing with his sword, working on simple wood carvings in order to hone his steadily improving skills further.  
   
They were both of them secretly relieved when Gunnar returned four days into the Yule celebrations. He came traveling back home on a sleigh borrowed from the master of the manor where he’d drunk Yule, and was so dead drunk that he could neither stand nor speak. The man who drove the sleigh was glad enough to be rid of him, for he’d been violently sick several times during the ride.  
   
Eoin and Muirenn did the best they could to take care of Gunnar and get him settled into his previous sober habits. For days he drifted in and out of consciousness, was unable to eat, and was ill whenever he tried to force down even the tiniest morsel of food.  
   
Over the last few months Muirenn had made a point of collecting recipes for potions that might help in such situations, anticipating this very emergency. She now diligently prepared the various brews and held Gunnar as he tried to drink them. She and Eoin took turns in assisting Gunnar in his near-helpless state, and in waking over him during the first few nights. They had both come to like and respect Gunnar over the months they’d been living in his house, and now pitied his inability to govern his drinking, rather than condemning him for it. Muirenn showed the wood carver every bit as much care and patience as she did little Sverri, and once Gunnar improved enough to be able to move about, Eoin took him to the nearest bath house and sat by him in the scaldingly hot steam for a long time, making him sweat out the last lingering effects of the binge drinking.  
   
Their joint struggle to get Gunnar back on his feet helped Eoin and Muirenn regain a sort of common ground, and they felt easier being around each other. Nevertheless the bridge spanning the newly formed gap between them was still tenuous, and when time soon came for Eoin to follow Gunnar out of Kaupang on the winter’s first major assignment, there was still a small unvoiced element of estrangement to Eoin and Muirenn’s parting.  
   
The two men traveled on horseback to a manor south of Kaupang, a pack horse carrying Gunnar’s many carefully cleaned and oiled tools. They would be staying at the manor for a time while Gunnar with Eoin’s assistance carved a set of elaborate new high seat poles. Muirenn in the meantime took Sverri and moved into Torgeirr’s clan’s house in town, where some of Torgeirr’s distant relatives were spending the winter. A woman could not live in a house by herself unless she had kinsmen or guards on hand to protect her.  
   
In this manner the winter months passed as the year moved slowly and steadily towards the one-year anniversary of their liberation.  
 

\- x - 

   
Late afternoon one overcast, chilly day in early spring Svein came riding at full tilt into the Einstad courtyard. Both he and the horse were covered in mud-splatters and weary to the point of exhaustion. The spring thaw had made every track slippery and wet, and riding over normally dry land at places seemed almost like struggling through a bog. On shadowed stretches there still was deep, wet snow to wade through. Only the most pressing errands would make men travel lengthy distances under such trying conditions.  
   
Svein swung down off his horse in a stiff and tired motion, leaving the horse standing with its head down, and at once asked to see Einnis. He was shown into the hall while still wiping mud off his face and hands with a piece of cloth one of the thralls had handed him. Einnis came to meet him as soon as he stepped inside, and looked at Svein with worry etched across his face.  
   
“Svein, what is it? Do you carry bad tidings?”  
   
Svein nodded even as he glanced around.  
   
“I need to talk to you under four eyes, Einnis Elmarson,” he said.  
   
Arna had stepped up behind Einnis, the bulk of her prominent belly causing her to move more slowly than she used to. She put a hand on Einnis’s shoulder and spoke calmly in a low voice.  
   
“There’s no-one in the weaving house at present, husband, but it’s warm there, and there’s still fire on the hearth. You can go there to talk, and I will have ale and food sent over.”  
   
Einnis sent her a grateful look and ushered Svein out the door and along the paved track to the small nearby building. Svein sank down on the bench just inside the door and looked up to Einnis tiredly.  
   
“Your brother told me in no uncertain terms to leave well enough alone, and gave orders that you shouldn’t be bothered, but I had to let you know. I have served your clan all my adult life.”  
   
Einnis sat down next to him, making an effort to breathe evenly and speak slowly.  
   
“I know you care for our honor. Just tell me what has happened,” he said.  
   
Svein drew a breath.  
   
“Ketil…. He has accepted Ulv Sigurdarson’s challenge to a Holmgang. The fight will take place the day after tomorrow, and they have agreed it will be a fight to the death!”  
   
Einnis stared at him, eyes wide.  
   
“Neither has claimed that the winner should get the other’s property, though,” Svein said reassuringly. “It’s a matter of honor between them, not of gold and goods.”  
   
Einnis shook his head to clear it. “You’d better tell me everything from the beginning,” he said.  
   
Svein explained how Ketil had traveled down the valley to join the funeral rites for the master of one of the largest farms in the southern part. The man died from an illness with coughing and raging fever after falling asleep drunk outside in the snow, and his clan had hurried to prepare a proper burial mound once they realized the inescapable outcome of the illness. Every man and woman of standing among the valley neighbors had been invited to the interment and the funeral feast. Ketil had traveled there with Svein and two of his other men.  
   
There had been no incidents at the funeral, but on the way home Ketil’s horse slipped on a muddy patch of the track, and went down. Ketil managed to roll off and away unharmed, though his fine cloak got completely soaked in dirty runoff water. His horse favored a hind leg once it got back up on all fours. Ketil stood bent over, feeling the horse’s leg and judging the damage when Ulv Sigurdarson and his brothers happened to ride up. They too were on the way back home from the funeral.  
   
Ulv had laughed with scorn at Ketil, bent over and muddied from top to toe, and had made a comment that Ketil’s looks and posture now fit his character. Ketil had responded in kind, one word taking the other. After the two men had traded various heated insults, Ulv had asked whether it was true that Ketil had called his wife-to-be a slut. There could be little doubt that someone had related to Ulv the words of spite Ketil had spoken of him and Helga both. Now Ketil had merely shrugged, righting himself to his full height, and coldly asked if Ulv held anything against people for speaking the plain truth. Ulv had turned scarlet, his jaws working and his eyes bulging with rage. He’d jumped off his horse and stepped right up into Ketil’s face. This was an insult to his wife’s honor, and therefore to his, and he knew well enough how Ketil treated women, he had grated menacingly. He offered to put a stop to Ketil’s slander and lies, once and for all, and to rid the valley of such a poor excuse for a real man, and challenged Ketil formally to a Holmgang.  
   
Ketil had laughed at him mockingly, called him a little boy and a childish one at that, who would end up losing his hot head, and accepted the challenge with a shrug. They’d agreed on fighting three days hence, and by then both had taken leave of any kind of sense and reason, and in a joint fit of fury swore to fight to the death even if Ulv’s brothers and Svein all had tried to dissuade them from going that far.  
   
Ketil had mounted one of his men’s horses and had returned home without saying another word. He’d ordered the men not to notify Einnis, and had otherwise behaved as if nothing untoward had occurred.  
   
Einnis had winced while learning the level of insults traded between Ketil and Ulv. Now he sighed.  
   
“You did the right thing, coming here,” he told Svein, just as Arna pushed through the door carrying a platter with food and a bowl of ale for Svein. Einnis looked up at his wife.  
   
“You needn’t be walking about like a servant-maid, Arna!”  
   
“I thought perhaps things would be happening here that servants need not see – or hear,” Arna answered evenly as she put the platter beside Svein on the bench and went to sit down by Einnis’s side.  
   
“Ketil needs me with him,” Einnis said, turning back to Svein. “Ulv will have all his family there to support him, I’m sure.”  
   
He bit his lip and sat for a little while, considering. “I haven’t seen Ulv for more than a year,” he said. “How does he look now, and how good of a fighter is he?”  
   
“He’s grown to full manhood, I would say, though he is slim and somewhat gangly. He is well-liked in the valley, and normally is thought of as cheerful and friendly, strange as that may sound just now. He’s rumored to be a good fighter, and he certainly seems to have the temper of a berserker,” Svein said pensively. “But Ketil is strong, and much more skilled with the sword… when he’s sober. He’s fought in battles and wars and has bested warriors in Holmgang before. I would easily bet on your brother to win.”  
   
“Yes,” Einnis said after a beat, speaking slowly. “I think you’re surely right. But the easier his win, the more Ulv’s father and brothers will resent him, after.”  
   
He sighed and turned to Arna, taking her hand. “I need to travel down to my brother’s farm tomorrow. He’s fighting a Holmgang the next day. I must be there.”  
   
Arna’s lips compressed in exasperation for a brief moment. She squeezed his hand. “Be careful, Einnis. Don’t get involved in fighting yourself, husband mine. Remember that in less than two months your son will be born, and he needs his father.”  
   
“I know he does, and I won’t act rashly to rob him of that. But he needs his uncle too,” Einnis muttered, and rose to his feet, helping Arna up. “Finish your meal, Svein. I will have one of the men show you to the bathhouse and then find you a sleeping bench. We ride at first light tomorrow.”  
 

\- x - 

   
Einnis and Svein rode into Ketil’s courtyard the next day. It was raining, a persistent cold drizzle from low, dull skies. The two men were weary and chilled to the bone.  
   
Einnis looked around the yard. There was no-one about, and silence hung heavily over the farm. The poor weather would be keeping people inside, working in the hall and the sheds, but nevertheless the emptiness and quiet gave the normally so busy farmyard an eerie appearance.  
   
Einnis shuddered slightly as he loosened a bundle strapped to his saddle and walked heavily towards the hall. Its door swung open at his approach, and a woman stepped outside, her head and shoulders hidden under a heavy woolen shawl. She wore a fine dress though, and even more tellingly, had many keys, needles and a scissor dangling from her elaborate domed brooches. It wasn’t necessary to see her face to know her position.  
   
She looked at Einnis from under the shawl and smiled, a wan and joyless grimace. “Thanks be to Freya that you have arrived, Einnis Elmarson. I was relieved to see Svein ride north. I do not know what to do with Ketil, I’ve never seen him like this.”  
   
Einnis nodded his head to her formally. “Mistress Ragnhild, well met.” He looked at the closed door behind her. “Is Ketil in there? Is he….?”  
   
“No, he’s not. For once he is completely sober, but he’s in a strangely fey mood,” Ragnhild responded. “Come inside, I will have warm water and clean clothes fetched for you, and then food. For Svein too, of course,” she added, seeing the other man standing by the horses in the rain.  
   
“Come inside, Svein,” she called. “I will have one of the thralls look to the horses!”  
   
Einnis stepped through the door warily, his eyes seeking the high seat. Ketil was sitting there, leaning forward, head tilted slightly sideways as his chin rested on one of his fists. His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping. Various servants and free-men were sitting on the benches along the walls, eating, drinking, or doing repair work, but no-one in the hall were talking much.  
   
Ketil heard the door opening, followed by Einnis’s steps, and his eyes opened into slits, gleaming in the firelight from the hearth.  
   
“Welcome, righteous little brother. I might have known there is no keeping you away. Come sit by me.”  
   
Einnis did as bid, sitting down and looking Ketil over warily.  
   
“How are you, Ketil Efni?”  
   
“Oh, I’m fine. Doing good. Did you expect me to be concerned about tomorrow? I have fought far better men than that sorry-looking stripling, and have always emerged the victor. And even if Ulv were a warrior with the strength of Thor himself, there would be no reason for me to spend time worrying. No man lives beyond the fated day, and that’s that.”  
   
Einnis placed the bundle he was carrying on the table in front of the high seat. “I’ve brought you Holmhogg to use, brother. It’s brought you luck before, would that it will do so again!”  
   
Ketil sat up, gripped the bundle and carefully unwrapped the sword, holding it up and looking with surprise and admiration at the gleaming blade.  
   
“You’d truly let me have the use of this, Einnis? It is yours now, and its luck too has passed to you.”  
   
“I want you to have it and to use it tomorrow, Ketil. You must know I am not happy about this fight. Sigurd will likely be our enemy, should you kill his son tomorrow, and that’s a feud we should have avoided. But Svein tells me it was Ulv who challenged you. You could hardly refuse without being deemed a coward.”  
   
“True,” was Ketil’s only response. “Very true.”  
   
He leaned his head back against the wall and said no more. Einnis for his part stepped quietly down to the side bench to wash and change out of his dirty tunic, as a servant-woman now brought him a bucket of steaming water, towels and a change of clothes.  
   
The brothers shared a quiet evening meal, and sat up afterwards over a bowl of ale. Ketil drank very little.  
   
“How is married life treating you, Einnis Eldhug?” he eventually asked.  
   
“It goes well enough. Arna and I have a good life. Soon our child will be born. I am content,” Einnis replied.  
   
“You should be,” Ketil said with emphasis. “You should be. Well enough? Is that all you have to say for married bliss, after you nearly broke your back for a full year with the building of your farm, winning Mjod’s daughter to be your wife?”  
   
“What do you want me to say, brother? I am not one for many words,” Einnis mumbled.  
   
Ketil sighed.  
   
“Thor’s balls, I don’t know…. Maybe I want you to use words I can recognize in myself, words that will resound like dvergamal in my mind.” His hands moved, a small defeated gesture, and he looked away. “Maybe I want words that can describe Helga, the way I feel when she visits me in my dreams at night.”  
   
Einnis frowned and cast a disapproving look in Ketil’s direction, but his brother looked serious, pensive and sad. For once Ketil Elmarson was speaking in earnest and had put his boasting and lewd bluster aside.   
   
“Do you mean…….?” Einnis didn’t know how to end his surprised question.

Ketil shrugged unhappily, a far-off look in is eyes. “I’ve spoken worst of her that I least wished harm. ´Wise men oft into fettered fools are made when marked by love’, isn’t that how it goes? Then imagine what harm it can do to someone stupidly unwise, like me!” he grinned widely, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “I thought the worst I’d ever have to do was go back to apologize to her. By all the trolls in Utgard, the bleeding shame of that – to have to crawl to a woman! But I was wrong. The worst has been these long months afterwards….”

Einnis stared at him, incredulity marking his every feature. “I’ve hardly heard you speak one kind or respectful word of her since that day we went to ask for her hand in marriage,” he said wonderingly.  
   
Ketil laughed. “I guess I haven’t. I’ve tried very hard to convince myself and everyone else that she’s a worthless bitch… but I haven’t succeeded. ”  
   
“Well then, have you thought about what tomorrow will bring her? It will hardly improve her opinion of you if you kill her betrothed shortly before they’re to marry. It adds fresh injury to previous insult. This Holmgang will set our clan back many years. Helga is a formidable woman, she’ll prove a formidable enemy.”  
   
“I know,” Ketil said approvingly. “She is proud, and strong-willed, and has a mind of her own. And she looks like Freya when she’s enraged, those bright eyes blazing.”  
   
Einnis was speechless, and Ketil cast a look in his direction. “I can’t do anything else than leave it up to the fates. Perhaps there is yet a way for me where Helga is concerned, though I can’t see it. If not… If worst comes to worst, I’ll at least die with honor in battle, and feast in Valhall every day after. I’m tired, Einnis. I’m through with all the aimless drinking and whoring. I aim for better fame:  
 

_“Cattle die and kinsmen die,_  
thyself too soon must die,  
but one thing, I deem, will never die -  
the fame of a dead man’s deeds.” 

   
 “I’ve never known you to quote so many ancient sayings, Ketil. You’ve never been one for talking about your fate.” Einnis’s voice was low and insistent. “Take heart, brother! We can weather this storm too. If you want to be known for your deeds, as do all good men, I think you should consider all that you’ve still got to do here in Midgard, all that it will take to improve your standing, and plan on living a long life in honor. Ulv was the one who challenged you – he will just have to take what’s coming.”  
   
Ketil cast a glance in his direction, as if gauging his mood, and hesitated for a moment. “I have reason to think of fate,” he eventually said. “Einnis – I saw my fylgje today.”  
   
Einnis blinked, shaking his head in immediate denial. “No!” He leaned forwards, voice raw as he whispered urgently to his brother. “Where? When? How?”  
   
“I saw it this morning. I was walking behind the Hall, coming back from taking a piss. There weren’t any others back by the trenches, and mist was rolling along the ground, almost like white smoke. It was like walking in the netherworld, and the silence…  there was no sound at all. Then it appeared, loping out of the fog right in front of me, and stood there, completely unafraid, staring at me with shining yellow eyes. I knew immediately what it was. I recognized it as easily as if it had walked next to me every day of my life.”  
   
Ketil bit his lip and shrugged. “Then all of a sudden it was gone, and I sensed a chill down my spine as if the cold fingers of Verdandi were tugging at my life thread.”  
   
“What did your fylgje look like?” Einnis asked in pale-faced dismay.  
   
“A big wolf.”  
   
“A wolf!” Einnis huffed, and suddenly grinned with frantic relief. “That can’t have been your fylgje, I’m sure. You’ve been thinking so much about Ulv Sigurdarson lately, you’re just dreaming of him with open eyes! He stalks your mind, don’t you see?”  
   
 “Perhaps. Frey’s cock and balls, Einnis, I don’t know….”  
   
Einnis continued right on, overriding his brother. “Maybe it was a _real_ wolf. It’s not unheard of that they come down to the houses. Did you check for paw prints?”  
   
“No matter, Einnis. Tomorrow will show me the fated way forward in any case. And where that way leads, who knows?” Ketil said evenly and rose from the seat. “I’m going to bed. I need to be rested for the fight. We’re meeting at noon by the northern lake-shore. Good night, brother. I’m glad you defied my wishes and came here to stand by me.”  
   
Ketil gripped Einnis’s shoulder for a moment, giving it an affectionate squeeze, and then walked quickly out of the hall. Einnis watched him going, and he was not alone in doing so. All eyes followed Ketil Elmarson as he left his hall with firm, decisive strides.  

\- x - 

Ketil rode out from his farm the next morning, dressed for fight. Bright mail glinted from under his cloak, he wore his distinct helmet with the beak-like nose-guard, and he carried Holmhogg proudly on his hip. With him rode his brother and three of their men, all of them armed and carrying the three shields that the rules of Holmgang would let Ketil use in the course of the fight.  
   
The rain had let up, but the day was grey and cloudy, the light somehow murky, and the landscape they rode through was covered in dirty melting snow and yesteryear’s wilted brown grasses.  
   
Ketil and Einnis rode next to each other but spoke little. Approaching the lakeshore they could see a group of men, their horses hobbled nearby. Ulv was there with his father and younger brother, and several of Sigurd’s free-men and guards besides. Two men were preparing the Holmgang site. They’d placed a large bull-hide on the ground, pegging it down firmly to ensure that it would stay in place, and were just starting to mark the fight area around the hide.  
   
Ketil rode up to the group at an even pace, nodded briefly to Sigurd, and swung down off his horse in a movement surprisingly graceful for such a big and brawny man. Einnis and their men followed suit.  
   
Terse and brief greetings were spoken among the two groups of men. Ketil looked Ulv in the eye coldly, then made a point of studying his followers.  
   
“By Thor and his hammer both, you mean to tell me you didn’t bring Helga along to watch you fall while defending her honor?” he asked Ulv mockingly, a slight note of disappointment lurking behind his scorn. “Who will tend to your corpse and weep womanish tears over your lifeless face, I wonder?”  
   
“No, of course I didn’t bring her. She’s so loath to meet you even once more in this life, she’s even willing to forego the pleasure of seeing you die,” Ulv sneered.  
   
“Shut your mouths, the both of you,” Sigurd said, annoyed. “You shame yourselves and your clans, behaving with such indignity.”  
   
He turned to Ketil. “Of course Helga Hauksdottir isn’t here, Ketil Elmarson. This hardly is a joyful day for her, or for her reputation, no matter the outcome of this Holmgang, which should have been avoided and which does our clans and the valley no good. And Helga certainly has more honor than to let herself be paraded in front of you two like a mare in heat being led out for stallions to fight over!”  
   
Ketil’s jaws clenched, but he didn’t immediately respond. Instead he pointedly looked towards the bull-hide staked on the ground and the hazel twigs marking the outer perimeter of the battle area. “Has everything been made ready? No need to dawdle. Let’s get it over with!” he said.  
   
He and Einnis both walked over to inspect the place that had been readied, and found everything to be fair and proper. Sigurd was not a man to flout the rules.  
   
Now the two fighters’ spare shields were placed by the perimeter so they would be able to get at a new one without stepping out of the fighting area and thereby be judged a coward. Both men shed their cloaks and unsheathed their swords, drank some water, and moved about flexing their limbs and loosening up their joints and muscles. Eventually it was time. Ketil clasped Einnis’s hand briefly, the brothers standing very close for a moment. Sigurd clapped Ulv on the back. “Good luck!”  
   
With that, Ketil and Ulv stepped up to the fight area, eying each other warily. All the other men moved away from the bull-hide. They would be watching from a distance in order to create the illusion of an original Holmgang. In the older days and along the coast the two combatants would have gone to a small island or promontory fight it out alone. Only one would have come back.  
   
Now the two saluted each other briefly with their swords, and Ulv spoke up, his voice ringing out clearly without any noticeable tremors.  
   
“Hear you all here assembled, that these are the rules of this Holmgang which we have agreed on and will follow, on pain of forfeiture of honor, life and property: This Holmgang will be fought to the death. The winner proves the loser honorless and wrong in all that he has spoken of the other, and earns three marks of silver besides. The battle will be fought with swords. Three shields are allowed for each, and since I challenged Ketil Elmarson, he will be allowed first strike.”  
   
Ulv drew a breath and bowed his head. “May Odin look to us here, and the Norns and powers grant victory to the one who deserves it.”  
   
With that the two men picked up a shield each, and stepped inside the fighting area, facing each other.  
   
The landscape was strangely peaceful, a marked contrast to the life-and death battle that was commencing. Some patches of mist were drifting over the lake, obscuring the calm water and lending the place an otherworldly air.  
   
Einnis held himself still, watching the fighters intently. His hand sought and clutched the silver Tor’s hammer on the thong around his neck.  
   
There was a loud clang as Ketil struck. The combatants’ swords met for the first time. The men crashed into each other with bruising force, pushing at each other with their shields, judging the opponent’s strength, then at once backed off. They circled each other warily, crouching slightly behind the large round shields.  
   
Ulv rushed forward, Ketil sidestepped, and their shields grazed off each other with a whack as the younger man tried to get at Ketil’s neck with his sword. Ketil stepped sideways and deflected his opponent easily, wrenching Ulv’s sword hard enough with his own to send the young man stumbling. Ulv was up and back in defensive position in a flash, jumping aside and out of Ketil’s way, once more circling to look for an opening.  
   
It soon became apparent that Ulv’s inexperience was both a strength and a weakness to him in his fighting. He left himself open to Ketil’s sword more than once, and only by means of youthful agility and quick reflexes did he manage to jump out of harm’s way in the very nick of time. But Ketil was used to fighting opponents who knew their game and who were predictable in anticipating his moves and trying to counter them. Ulv several times fell for his feints and ruses when Ketil hadn’t expected him to.  
   
Ketil moved in close, pushing Ulv backwards, trying to make him lose his balance, then stepped back while slashing at Ulv’s face. He clearly expected Ulv to dance to the side, protecting his legs, seeing the high sword thrust for the feint it was, but Ulv met it straight on with his shield instead. The force of the blow on his arm made him scream in pain. He lashed out wildly with his sword.  It was by pure coincidence and blind luck that the flailing tip grazed Ketil’s skin under the left eye, slicing his cheek. Blood immediately poured from the gash. Had the Holmgang been fought on a first blood wins basis, as was often the case, the battle would have been over.  
   
Ketil jumped backwards, ignoring the wound, circling the other man warily, his eyes mere slits looking for an opening. Ulv was favoring his shield arm slightly; it had evidently been numbed by the force it had just deflected. He had been dancing away to the side each time Ketil advanced, but suddenly he threw himself forward, pivoting as he advanced, spinning to get behind Ketil’s shield. His sword lashed out towards Ketil’s neck as he rushed past. But Ketil was too quick for him; he slid skillfully out of harm’s way, his sword slashing at Ulv’s exposed backside. The sword glanced off Ulv’s mail and downwards, sending him tumbling, but not before slicing into his buttocks. Ulv roared and jumped forward to get away, and turned at once into a defensive position.  
   
Once more they were circling each other, swords at the ready. They had stepped beyond the bull’s hide now and were fighting on the bare earth near the outer border, which was becoming blood-spattered as crimson dripped steadily from both men’s wounds.  
   
Despite Ulv having drawn first blood, there was no doubt that Ketil had the upper hand, and that the younger man seemed out of his depth. Einnis glanced at Sigurd. The man was pale and tense, his eyes dark as he followed his son’s battle. His hand was clenched around his sword hilt enough to make his knuckles white, but he made no effort to draw the sword or interfere in any way. Somehow he noticed Einnis looking at him, and shook his head imperceptibly.  
   
“He’s had to endure many jokes about the difference in age between Helga and himself, and there’s been no end of lewd comments about how demanding it will be for him to keep up with his experienced wife, - how she’ll wear him out. It’s made him irritable and too easily provoked, lately,” Sigurd said, to everyone and no-one.  
   
Einnis didn’t reply, and both men’s eyes were drawn back to the battle by a shout. Ketil was rushing forward again, stabbing at Ulv’s feet as he moved right past him. When Ulv immediately lowered his shield to deflect the thrust, Ketil sent his own heavy shield spinning at Ulv’s head with all the force he could muster, the wooden disc missing the younger man’s forehead by a hair’s breath when Ulv ducked. Ketil shouted in rage and sprinted to where his two other shields were waiting. He hurriedly picked one up and turned back to fend off Ulv who followed hot on his heels, sword slashing through the air in a predictable counterattack.  
   
Both men were moving more slowly now, their strikes appearing less precise. Intense fighting was demanding on the body and draining on the mind. Ketil looked like a wild creature with one side of his face completely covered in blood. Ulv obviously was noticing the painful sword cut across his buttocks, but seemed surprisingly unhampered.   
   
The end came quickly and unexpectedly.  
   
The two men were up against each other again, Ketil pushing at Ulv with his full body weight, making him yield, his knees starting to give. Somehow, as Ketil pressed his advantage, Ulv slid under his opponent’s arm, nearly falling forward as he did so, his arms thrown wide in an effort to remain upright. The larger man spun to jab at him forcefully. Ulv flailed, his shield askew, and by chance hit Ketil square on the jaw with the shield rim, the sound of the impact loud enough to be heard by all the spectators. Ketil was felled like an ox hit over the head with a butcher’s axe. He went down hard, and remained on the ground.  
   
Einnis gasped and took a step forward, but halted himself in his tracks. The Holmgang was being fought to the death; he had no right to interrupt the fight until one of the men was dead. His own life would be forfeit if he did – he would likely be outlawed.  
   
Ketil lay in a daze, unmoving, as Ulv stumbled into position by his head, his shaking hands taking aim with the sword over Ketil’s throat. At the last possible moment, just as the sword stabbed downwards, Ketil came to and made a desperate effort to roll to the side and out of harm’s way. He was still dazed and his movements were too slow and sluggish. He did not manage to completely avoid the sword. It bit into the side of his neck where it met his shoulder, and got stuck in the ground, the downward momentum violent enough to make the blade slice deep into the earth.  
   
Bright crimson spurted from Ketil’s throat and down over his chest and shoulder as he somehow managed to wrench himself free and get up on his knees, his fist still convulsively locked around the hilt of Holmhogg. He flailed out wildly with the sword arm, a last desperate effort to fight, and with a bellow managed to slash Ulv in the leg above his knee, a deep tendon-severing cut that at once started gushing crimson over the soiled and trampled fighting ground. Ulv screamed and fell forward, and Ketil too once more hit the ground with a thump, going limp. Wielding his sword for that last violent thrust had ripped Ketil’s wound completely open. Blood gushed from his neck.  
   
Neither of the men tried to get up again.  
   
Einnis looked Sigurd in the eye, and without speaking they nodded briefly to each other before hurrying over to their fallen kinsmen. Ulv was unable to get up and was desperately trying to staunch the leg wound. His father threw himself down over him, already tearing at his son’s trousers to get at the wound and tie off the bleeding.  
   
Einnis disregarded them. He only had eyes for Ketil. His brother lay with open eyes, crimson pooling around his head and shoulders, dripping from the wound in his cheek and bubbling from the gaping gash in his neck.  
   
“Ketil!”  
   
He opened his eyes and struggled to focus. Death was already hovering over him, leaning in over his shoulder, breathing coldly on his skin, dimming the light in his eyes and clouding his sight. His voice was a mere rattle.  
   
“Einnis,” he whispered, a gargling rattle marring each word. “Einnis Eldhug… brother…. Fate brought me love… and dishonor. The joke’s on me.” He tried to laugh, a gulping, hacking sound escaping his lips as fresh blood stained them crimson. Once more he struggled to speak. “But I don’t regret…. tell Helga… tell her…….”

His eyes went wide and frantic as his focus shifted to something behind Einnis’s head in the last instance before life left him. “Einnis…! The wolf….”  
   
Ketil’s head rolled over to the side, and the tense body went lax. The pool of blood under him still mirrored the sky for a moment, but was already soaking into the earth, the large stains on the bull hide going dull, brown and lifeless.  
   
Einnis gripped his brother’s limp hand, crushed it in his own, and bent his head.  
   
Ketil Elmarson was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **High seat poles:** The wooden beams that would hold the roof up on either side of the "high seat" or place of honor in a hall or hov, ie. the beams by the bench space (on a dais, even) where the lord or master of a farm or manor would sit and which indicated status and clan leadership. The poles in question were often richly decorated, unique to each manor or hov and were imbued with power and magic related to the fortune of the clan. Several Icelandic sagas (including Kormak’s Saga, Islendinga Saga and Öyrbyggja Saga) tell how settlers who’d emigrated from Norway in the days that Iceland first was populated threw their old homestead's poles overboard from their ship and then built their new farm and their new life in Iceland on the place where the poles drifted ashore, and which therefore had to be an auspicious place.
> 
>  **Holmgang** : Ritualized duel between two opponents, often fought on a matter of honor, and originally taking place in a secluded spot (an island etc.) where the two would go, but only one would return. In the course of the Viking era the Holmgang rules became more ritualized (and less lethal) and eventually Holmgang was banned altogether. 
> 
> **I’ve spoken worst of her that I least wished harm** – this isn’t an exact quote, but closely echoes the sentiment of the main character, the four-times married Helga, in Laxdæla Saga: “To him I was worst whom I loved best”. As an old woman she speaks of Kjartan who was her first fiancée but who forsook her early on in their lives. Helga later egged her husband (and Kjartan’s foster-brother) Bolle to kill Kjartan, but in her old age she admitted Kjartan was the one she’d loved the most. 
> 
> **“No man lives beyond the fated day”** – One of the many Grettir’s saga sayings. 
> 
> **“Cattle die and kinsmen die, etc.** \- One of the most well-known stanzas (no. 75) from Havamal. It epitomizes the Norse belief that the one thing a man could govern and should strive for was to live in such a manner that he would be spoken well of after his fated death. In Norse belief, the way a person lived and behaved on earth had no bearing on where he ended up after death – even the good god Balder had to stay for ever in the dark and sinister death realm kept by Loki’s daughter Hel, whose name now forms part of many languages’ name for Hell. It was therefore not the hope of reward (or fear of punishment) in the afterlife, but the fear of being spoken ill of by one’s peers here on earth, that kept men (and women) on the Norse version of the straight and narrow.
> 
>  **Ulv** or "Ulf" – the name means “wolf” and together with Bjorn (“Bear”) is used as a man’s name in Scandinavia even today (though rarely). 
> 
> **Dvergamal** – “Dwarf speech”; ancient term for echo. People believed that echoes were dwarves in the mountains, aping human speech. 
> 
> **“Wise men oft… etc. “** – the quote comes from Stanza 94 of Havamal, which despite its mostly very pragmatic living advice admonishes the listeners that love can strike unexpectedly, and no-one should blame another man for loving (a woman) out of turn and acting unwisely as a consequence.
> 
>  **Verdandi** – one of the three norns, the goddesses of fate who spin and cut each person’s life thread. 
> 
> **Fylgje** – (“one who follows”), according to Norse beliefs a spirit that followed each single person, often in the shape of an animal corresponding to the personality of the man or woman in question. (A bear for a warrior, for instance). Seeing one’s own fylgje was a strong omen of imminent death. 
> 
> **A mare for two stallions to fight over** – Horse fights were a cherished “sport” among the Vikings (and bets were made on the fights). In order to egg the fight on they would actually lead a mare in heat out to get the stallions into proper fighting spirit.


	21. Chapter 21

Ketil returned to his farm carried over the back of his horse, his body carefully wrapped in his own sumptuous cloak. Einnis rode into the yard in front of their small and subdued company. Mistress Ragnhild came out to meet them, her face pale and serious.  
   
The news traveled over the farm in no time, almost as if spread by seid, everyone appearing in the muddy courtyard to watch in silence as Ketil was taken down and respectfully brought into the guest-hall on Einnis’s orders. Einnis followed, seeing to it that his brother was carefully laid out on a stretcher next to the cold hearth in the middle of the floor.  
   
The men, women and children of the farm remained standing outside in the fading daylight of the early spring afternoon, looking to Einnis in silence as he stepped back out from the darkness of the empty hall.  
   
Einnis looked drawn and exhausted. He clenched his jaws, squared his shoulders and looked out over the people assembled, every one of them now once more dependent on him for their safety and wellbeing. Even the thralls had come slinking up, standing unobtrusively in the background of the throng.  
   
“My brother is dead. He died with courage in fair battle, and no doubt he’ll soon be feasting and fighting in Valhall with the heroes of old.” Einnis drew a breath. “Once the funeral ale has been drunk, I will take over as master and assume the high seat of this farm as did my brother and our forefathers before me. Never fear. Life here will continue as before.”  
   
A low murmur of approval could be heard from the intently listening crowd. Einnis nodded and made a dismissive gesture, turning towards the hall but looking back over his shoulder. “Svein, please follow me, and mistress Ragnhild too. There’s much to be arranged and little time to waste.”  
   
Inside the hall Einnis sank down on the bench next to the high seat, slumping tiredly against the wall. Svein followed him with weary steps, but Ragnhild remained among her women for a moment and had them busying themselves by the hearth before following the two men.  
   
“I’ve arranged for food and drink to be prepared for you, Einnis Elmarson,” she said “You need to keep your strength and your wits for the days ahead.”  
   
Einnis nodded, tacitly acknowledging her care. He sighed. “Tomorrow at first light, have a man sent up to Einstad to bring them the news. Let me speak to him before he goes – I want to give him instructions about what to say and how to say it, and I will give him a private message to Arna from me. And we need to prepare the burial. I think we will open the side of my father’s father Elmar Ketilson’s barrow and place Ketil there.  
   
“You do not want a separate mound for your brother?”  
   
“No. The terms of the Holmgang were clear enough that it will be said Ketil died for a dishonorable cause, even if he died well. Opening and adding to his ancestor’s barrow will have to do. Before the sjaund we will have a large pyre built and send Ketil to the afterlife that way.”  
   
Svein stared at him disgruntledly, but didn’t object.  Einnis paused for a moment, looking at the two others. “Ketil died in battle, he’ll be drinking in Valhall and tended to by valkyries that very night, and every one thereafter as long as the world stands,” he said earnestly. “I will myself choose his belongings tomorrow, everything that will be burned with him. We need to have men prepare all the firewood and the incendiary material.… “  
   
Einnis turned to Ragnhild. “First of all we must start preparing the sjaund. Seven days is not a lot of time, especially now that the stores are so low. Svein, we must have messages sent through the valley. I don’t know how many will come. The tracks are very difficult to travel these days, and some people may want to recall the terms of the Holmgang, and to show Ulv and his clan respect and therefore stay away.”  
   
Ragnhild shook her head. “You hold yourself too cheaply, Einnis Elmarson. They will come. I have heard enough talk here in the valley to know people respect you. Now that you inherit your brother and assume the clan’s high seat they’ll not think less of you. They’ll surely want to remain on good standing with you, and with your wife and her clan too. Yes, I do think we will have a full house.”  
   
Einnis sighed again and drew a weary hand across his eyes. “I will take some food now, and then I will follow you back to see my brother laid out and tended to. I will wake over him tonight.”  
 

\- x - 

   
Ketil had been laid out in the middle of the room. He had been respectfully cared for by Ragnhild and her women, who had washed him and arranged his hair, tended the cuts in his cheek and his neck, pinched closed his nose, tied up his jaw, and clothed him in his best attire. Holmhogg lay on Ketil’s unmoving chest, its hilt under his chin, and was held in place by his crossed arms.  
   
Now the women had all left the room, and night was setting in. Einnis was alone with his brother. Two torches on the far wall and an oil lamp by Ketil’s head provided the only light. Einnis was sitting on the bench, staring at his brother’s inert form. Ketil looked at peace. The once haughty face was now tranquil; all the bitterness and scorn were things of the past. His mouth was soft and forever rid of the sneer that had so frequently marred it.  
   
The flickering torchlight played over Ketil’s features. The constantly shifting light and shadows gave the illusion of animation, as if the unruly spirit had not torn free yet from the still body and was struggling within, homeless and distraught.

   
The hours dragged slowly on, the farm and all its inhabitants sleeping uneasily in the buildings surrounding the little hall. One of the torches sputtered and went out, but Einnis didn’t move to replace it. Instead he rose from his seat and stepped up to Ketil’s pallet, looking down on the body already crumbling in death. Einnis’s own body went tense, and he turned to hammer his hand with all his might against one of the wooden beams. He swore, sat down again, and bent forward dejectedly. “Love….and dishonor…..but no regrets?” he whispered shakily into the darkness.  
   
A heavy sigh escaped him, and then he did what he had not done since he was five years old, that far-away never forgotten day when Ketil mocked him for behaving like a little girl. He hid his face in his hands and wept – deep sobs racking his frame and making his crumpled shadow on the wall shake and tremble in the dim and dismal light.  
 

\- x - 

   
The next day was a hectic one. Ragnhild set her women to start preparing the sjaund. She herself went through the farm’s stores and decided on what food and drink they’d need to borrow or buy in the valley. She picked out the sheep and a bull to be slaughtered in order to feed the guests at the feast, and shook her head in dismay, clicking her tongue at the thin animals in sheds and byre and the number of empty ale barrels in store.  
   
“The leanest time of year, and yet here’s a wedding the one year and a funeral ale the next – it’s certainly no easy game being mistress of this place!” she muttered under her breath.  
   
The thralls were set to work getting ready the large quantity of firewood required, and one of the free-men, skilled in general carpentry work, was already busy building the wooden cover for the top of the pyre. Messengers were sent north to Einstad and south through the valley, one of them on a special errand carrying gifts for the godi who was needed at the farm for the funeral rites. All the people of the farm made common cause in preparing the funeral. If their master was dead then at least they would take pride in sending him off in a manner that would satisfy both gods and men.  
   
The first of the messengers returned home as the light faded towards evening. Einnis was in the process of picking out those of Ketil’s possessions that would follow his brother on his pyre. Svein walked by his side and so did Ragnhild, the keeper of all the finely wrought keys granting access to storage rooms and locked chests.  
   
Svein at once went out to talk to the man, while Einnis lingered for a moment over a chest containing some of his father’s weapons, all those that had not followed him into his grave. When he stepped out of the storage room after a brief while, Svein was already deep in talk with the messenger. He turned to Einnis.  
   
“Skjalg here says that nearly every single farmer and chieftain have confirmed they will be coming to the sjaund. They want to pay their respects. The news had traveled fast; everyone already knew Skjalg’s errand when he rode to their door.”  
   
Skjalg nodded empathically. “The news in the valley is that Helga Hauksdottir rode south this morning. She probably wants to check if that cut across Ulv’s ass robbed him of his manhood. Little point would there be to her having promised herself to a youngling whose only advantage is his stamina and a perpetual hard-on, if his balls have just been cut off!”  
   
“In any case he can’t ride a horse and he won’t be able to sit for a good long while,” Svein added with a vicious grin. “He’ll have to spend his time crawling on his knees – with a wife like Helga I guess that’s the position he should get used to in any case!”  
   
The men laughed uproariously, but Einnis frowned and laid a hand on Svein’s arm, shaking his head.  
   
“Such talk is unwise and unwarranted, Svein. The valley has ears, as my brother certainly discovered. Leave it be.”  
   
The men could not fail to notice the dark circles round Einnis’s eyes. “Yes, Einnis Elmarson. We will keep our mouths shut. Justice is in any case secured with the sword and not with the tongue, but only a thrall takes vengeance at once,” Svein said, bowing slightly and signaling for Skjalg to follow him inside.  
   
Einnis looked after them, but didn’t respond nor speak again. Instead he walked back to sit by his brother’s side. The room where Ketil was resting was open to all, and nearly every person on the farm had been there in the course of the day to show him honor and to mutter an imprecation to the gods for their own future wellbeing and that of their new master’s. As Einnis entered the hall, one of Ragnhild’s younger serving maids stepped out through the door, her head bent low to hide a pale and stricken face. One of her hands was balled into a fist clenching her skirt, and she was biting the knuckles of the other to keep herself from sobbing aloud. Silent tears nevertheless trickled down her cheeks, and her chest was heaving as she scuttled past Einnis, face averted. He looked after her in surprise. He could not even recall the girl’s name.  
   
Arna Mjodsdottir arrived at the farm the next evening. Only with difficulty did she manage to get down off her horse, and Einnis had to support her inside. The long ride through mud and melting snow had taken its toll on her heavy body. Once inside, Arna wordlessly embraced her husband, holding him as tight as her bulging belly allowed. He hid his face in the crook of her neck and sighed.  
   
“It is good that you are healthy and whole and unharmed,” was all she eventually said. “We will bring the clan forward in honor and decide on the proper steps to take. The rash cut too oft goes astray. With time and care and wisdom much will become clear.”  
   
The wake over Ketil lasted three days and three nights. Thereafter he was placed on a wooden platform that had been prepared in the yard, laid to rest on the skin of the bear he himself had brought down. He was clad in full warrior’s attire, his helmet for one last moment catching the rays of the setting sun, which was bright but held little warmth. His hands clasped the hilt of Holmhogg, firmly in place on his chest, and his decorated round shield covered his legs and feet. All his other weapons - spear, axe, daggers, bow and arrows - were placed around him. He was after all going to Valhall to continue fighting every day till Ragnarok.  
   
Einnis stood by, pale and silent, as his men lifted the wooden tent-like structure that would cover Ketil for as long as his body still remained on earth. Looking at his brother for the last time, he bent over him, laid a hand on his shoulder, and spoke softly into the dead man’s ear, his voice a mere whisper so that none of the bystanders could discern his words. At the very last Einnis placed a dagger, one of their father’s heirlooms, over Ketil’s heart. Its handle was made with fine silver inlays in the shape of a snarling, attacking wolf.  
   
He stepped back and signaled for the men to close the makeshift chamber up. They put the wooden cover in place. The temporary burial chamber would remain in the yard till time came for the sjaund.  
 

\- x - 

   
On the seventh day since Ketil’s death the whole household was up early. Ketil’s wooden chamber was carried to the pyre, which had been built outside the gate in the field behind the ancestors’ barrows. The pyre had been constructed in the shape and size of a long-ship, and was entirely made from dry wood, built over a core of oil-soaked and tarred logs. Ketil’s horse was killed and lifted onto the pyre with its ceremonial harness and bridle on, and was followed by an ox and several of the farm’s hunting dogs. Many of Ketil’s personal belongings followed, carefully placed so that they would be available to their owner in his new life beyond the grave.  
   
Guests from the valley started riding through the gates well before noon. One of the first to arrive was the godi, who greeted Einnis and Arna solemnly. After washing himself and taking some refreshment he walked out with the new master and mistress, the farm’s people and the guests to stand before the pyre.  
   
Einnis carried a burning torch, and so did many of Ketil’s free-men. It was a fine day. A pale sun shone from a sky dotted with fast-moving clouds. The winds were blustery but not violent.  
   
The godi stretched his hands skyward, and with commanding and far-reaching voice started the funeral ritual. He named Ketil’s clan and listed his ancestors, described his death in battle in formal terms meant for the ears of the gods and the powers of earth and sky, and called on Odin himself to acknowledge Ketil’s bravery and to admit him into Valhall, to be feasted every night after fighting every day.  
   
While the godi spoke these words of praise for the deceased, Einnis stepped forward and thrust his torch into the pyre. The other men followed suit, one after the other, till the whole structure had been set ablaze, and the heat of it forced the mourners to move further away. Ferocious flames soon engulfed the entire pyre. Heavy grey smoke billowed into the air, rising on the gusting wind like a tower of cloud and ashes, visible for miles. It was a signal for the gods to notice and the valkyries to descend upon.  
   
Making a sweeping, dramatic motion, as if driving the smoke up and onwards, the godi broke into the words of one of the ancient rites, calling on the valkyries to come for Ketil and to bring him back with them.  
 

_“On all sides I see Valkyries assemble,_  
Ready to ride, then return to the gods.  
Hrist and Mist bring the horn filled with mead  
Skuld bears the shield, and Skogul the sword,  
Skeggjold rides next,  
Guth, Gol, Gondul, and Geirskogul,  
Hild and Thrut, Hlok and Herfjotur,  
Randgrith and Rathgrit and Reginleif,  
All Odin’s maidens these names I have spoken,  
Valkyries ready to roam over earth,  
Finding the fallen, fast steeds flying home.” 

   
The pyre was completely engulfed in flame and smoke. The women mourners wailed and cried aloud, and the free-men and warriors beat their shields with their spears, brought along for that purpose.  
   
Einnis stood with Arna in forefront of the throng, near enough to feel the fire’s heat scorching his cheeks and forehead. He stared unblinkingly into the flames and remained standing there till the pyre collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing more than a heap of embers and ashes, pieces of scorched timber and some flickering flames here and there. The main structure was gone, and all that it had held. Ketil Elmarson had left the earth behind.

\- x - 

New guests still came riding up the trail towards the farm, planning to attend the sjaund even if they were too late for the burning. Einnis and Arna stood together at the front of the hall, welcoming every guest of high standing and thanking them for showing Ketil and the clan the honor of appearing.  
   
No-one had expected anyone from Ulv Sigurdarson’s clan to attend the funeral ale, and there were many gasps of surprise when Sigurd himself rode into the yard, only accompanied by two of his free-men. After dismounting he stepped up to Einnis and bowed his head politely.  
   
“I have come to show your brother respect as a token of good will, Einnis Elmarson. I hope to see peace between our clans. May Ulv’s severe wounds be the last ones from any blow struck among us,” he said.  
   
Einnis looked at him for a moment, his face looking stiff and strangely emotionless. “You are welcome here, Sigurd. I carry no grudge towards you, nor did Ketil, nor does anyone in my clan. And your own clan of yore is of great renown and has long been well respected,” he said slowly.  
   
Sigurd had to content himself with those few enigmatic words. He walked on to find himself a place in the hall. Arna hadn’t spoken a word to him.  
   
As the day now turned to dusk the time had come for drinking the funeral ale and hailing the farm’s new master. The hall was crammed with people, more than the benches could hold. There were many brimming bowls of ale and mead, some of which had been bought from neighboring farms only the day before. A low excited murmur passed through the hall and was followed by a hush as Einnis rose from the bench next to the High Seat and lifted his drinking horn.  
   
“This is the sjaund in honor of my brother Ketil. He was a good man, a courageous warrior, and he died in battle. All men wish for such a fate, but not to all is it granted.” Einnis swallowed and paused for a moment. “From this day onwards I will sit in the High Seat of our forefathers, and I promise to revere my brother’s memory, to learn from his example in life and in death, and to live my own life well and with honor.”  
   
He paused again, his pale and drawn face determinedly expressionless as he eyes moved over the crowd in the hall. He lifted his horn another fraction. “I take over as master of this farm and head of our clan, and I vow that I will serve the clan in such a manner that I may look our ancestors in the eye unafraid and with pride when my fated hour comes. I vow that what I one day pass on to my heirs will be more and better than I myself inherited. Long may this farm and our clan prosper! May Odin grant it and Tor protect us!” He drew a slightly shuddering breath, his voice rising to a shout. “I hereby drink to that, and ask you to join me!”  
   
A loud cheer rose from the assembled guests, and with that Einnis stepped up on the dais and sat down in the High Seat, formally assuming the clan’s place of authority, his head held high and his face still impassive except for the firmly set jaws.  
   
Now Ragnhild stepped forward to stand before Arna, who got to her feet with some difficulty.   
   
“Mistress, I beg leave to relinquish the keys of this farm to you,” she said, and unhooked the large batch of keys from her brooches. Arna accepted them gravely, and fastened them to her own dress, where some of the Einstad keys where also dangling, though she had left most of them behind in the care of one of her women.  
   
“I accept these keys and the duty of mistress of this farm. From this day onwards, I will serve it well. May Freya support me and the Norns grant it be so!”  
   
The crowd cheered almost as much for Arna as for Einnis, and drank a boisterous toast in her honor. The fact that she was heavily pregnant was lost on no-one. It was a good omen that the next generation would so soon be greeting the light of day, ensuring the continuance of the clan and its activities. It was surely a blessing from the gods that a young, strong and fertile couple were taking over as master and mistress.  
   
Arna’s cheeks were hectically flushed under her snow-white expensive wife’s coif, but her voice was steady and calm as she now clapped her hands sharply and called for the food to be served. One more time loud cheers rose to the rafters. The sjaund was off to a good start.  
 

\- x - 

   
At this stage the required public formalities surrounding Ketil’s funeral and Einnis’s inheritance had been seen to in style and with dignity.  
   
The day after the sjaund the farm’s people walked out to watch in silence while the ashes from the pyre were collected into a wooden box, which immediately and without any further pomp and ceremony was placed in the opening that had been dug in the side of the chosen barrow. The box was covered with soil and the grass sod placed back over it. The barrow looked not much different than before, Ketil’s remains barely making a dent in the grassy surface.  
   
That was the end of it as far as most were concerned. Life would be back to normal, and the year’s cycle would advance as before. Spring was at hand, with busy days and new life emerging in the fields and in barn and byre, and soon also in the main hall.   
   
And if the master and mistress through this sudden and unexpected turn of events had had additional responsibilities and duties placed on their young shoulders, if they now had even more expectations to live up to – well, such was their fate. And in the household’s eyes it was a fate to be thoroughly envied and desired, and certainly neither mourned nor pitied.  
 

\- x - 

   
South of Kaupang the work with the high seat poles was going well. The Lord of the manor had Thor as his full-trui, and Gunnar had therefore proposed that the poles should show scenes from Tor’s adventures.  
   
The first pole had been finished. It showed Tor fighting giants. The Utgard forces of chaos, represented by intertwining dragon shapes and strange many-limbed creatures with large staring eyes, were falling back and crawling away from the god’s might and his prominently displayed hammer. Interlocking lightning bolts flared along the high seat pole’s upper part. The other one was close to being completed too, and showed Thor fishing the Midgard’s Worm from the depths of the sea. At the bottom of the pole the seabed was indicated. Beyond that the serpent wound its way sinuously around the pole, its scaly body covered in wing-like fins. Its gaping maws had just closed around the bull’s head that Thor was using for bait, and the fishing line wound several times round the pole. Higher up, just above the serpent’s magnificent and frightening head, Thor’s boat sailed on the surface of the sea. The god himself was standing, one hand on the line and the other raised skyward, the hammer held high and ready to strike at the very top of the pole. It was an intricate carving that cleverly used every part of the wooden surface to tell a well-known and much beloved tale.  
   
Eoin admired Gunnar’s ability to make vivid stories emerge from the wood. He was impressed by the wood-carver’s skill in turning the size and form of the object he was adorning to his advantage. The two of them worked well together. Gunnar drew up the design and did the fine and detailed carvings, while Eoin prepared the surface in advance of the carving, smoothed it down once finalized, and increasingly also contributed to the less intricate carving work. If he felt a twinge in his heart as he was polishing the god’s hammer, remembering the small silver version that would always lie against Einnis Elmarson’s warm skin, he managed to keep that pain to himself, to hide the longing deep inside, and to work on.  
   
Gunnar was so preoccupied with his carving work that he had no trouble staying sober. Eoin was glad of it, for the two of them shared a bench space in the manor’s guest hall. It was a good place to sleep. The bench was wide and comfortable, close to the hearth and covered with heavy woolen blankets and warm furs. All of it reflected the respect that an artist of Gunnar’s renown would command.  
   
The people of the farm were clearly impressed as the carving of the high seat poles progressed. Many made it their errand to visit the house where the two wood-carvers labored in order to admire their work and praise their skill.  
   
Eoin had decided to limit his religious practices to brief prayers at morning and night, though he occasionally and inevitably also made the sign of the cross out of long habit. People therefore soon became aware that he held to a foreign god, but no-one seemed to care overmuch. They somehow were willing to take it in stride and to shrug it off as a creative mind’s artistic otherness. Compared to the scorn he had been afforded as a thrall, the good will, acceptance and friendly curiosity that Eoin now met were especially pleasing to him, and a very welcome change.  
   
Every single Laugar-day he gratefully took the opportunity of going to the men’s bath house for a long and cleansing sweat bath. One such day towards the very end of winter he had wanted to finish a particularly difficult section of carving, and he continued with that even after Gunnar left for the day. Therefore he came unusually late to the bath house. Most others had finished and left already, and there was more than enough space on the wooden benches along the back wall. With a sigh Eoin sank down on the upper one, letting the searingly hot steam envelop him and coil its moist tendrils around him. He gasped with the feel of it, the strong heat nearly bludgeoning him with its intensity. Sweat poured from every inch of his slick and flushed body as he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing shallowly.  
   
The door opened and closed. The whiff of colder air that briefly caressed Eoin’s skin was quickly subdued by the relentless heat in the room. Even more dense steam billowed fog-like through the room as the newcomer threw a dipper-full of water on the hot stones.  
   
The man stepped over to Eoin’s bench and sat down next to him with a contented groan. Eoin cast a brief glance in his direction and nodded briefly but politely. In the hazy air and nearly non-existent light it wasn’t easy to make out details, but he recognized the newcomer as one of the manor’s guards. He was a man of middling height with extremely well-muscled arms and chest, a strong body and an appealing face, though his nose was slightly crooked from an old injury. His blond hair and beard were already darkened and dripping with sweat in the damp heat.  
   
They sat for a while in silence. Eventually the man turned Eoin’s way.  
   
“You’re Jaran the Irish, are you not - the wood carver working with Gunnar Gavlpryd? I’ve been admiring the work you two are doing, it is masterful,” he said.  
   
“Thank you,” Eoin said and nodded. “I don’t think I’ve heard your name?”  
   
“Ragnvald Arason,” the other said, and snorted with laughter. “They call me Ratatoskr. Stupid name, I know. It stuck after an ale feast. It’s a long story.” He waited a beat, and when Eoin did not ask to hear the tale, he shrugged and changed the topic.  
   
“I stay in Kaupang during the trade season, guarding the manor’s storage houses. Mylord trades in large quantities of fur and down, you know, and in falcons too. I saw you in town this summer, learning swordplay from Alf. He’s a friend of mine. A very good swordsman. Doesn’t say much, but sure gets his point across.” Ragnvald grinned at his own weak pun. “I saw you practicing the sword yesterday outside in the exercise area too. You’ve really improved. You can hold your own now. Didn’t you learn the use of the sword back home in Ireland? No wonder our warriors easily win themselves land and riches there, if able and well-built men like you go unarmed.”  
   
“No!” Eoin said coldly and righted himself on the bench, leaving Ragnvald to decide which one of his questions or comments he was responding to.  
   
“I meant no offense. Please do not leave because of a few tactless words,” Ragnvald said, his tone of voice earnest. Eoin didn’t reply, but he remained seated, his skin flushed now not only with the heat, but also with emotion.  
   
Ragnvald moved on the bench, adjusting his pelvis, stretching and spreading his hairy legs, squaring his well-muscled and glistening shoulders and wiping his hand across his brow with a brief disarming flash of teeth.  
   
“Puh! I don’t think Odin between king Geirröd’s fires felt any hotter than I do right now!” He exhaled audibly and after a moment returned to his previous topic. “I wanted to mention that when you’re in Kaupang this summer I can give you weapons-training for free, if you’re interested.” He leaned in closer, steadying himself with a hand placed right next to Eoin’s bare thigh, his voice turning deep and sincere. “There’s a field and a lean-to in the woods behind the old ale hall. It’s my lord’s, but he lets his guards use it whenever we want to, and never asks any questions. If you like, you and I can go there to cross swords sometimes. Get a proper work-out.”  
   
Ragnvald met Eoin’s eyes, his gaze open and direct. His smile slowly widened as their eyes remained locked for a beat. The moment however came to an abrupt end when the bath house keeper tore open the door with enough force to make it slam against the wall. They both jumped slightly and moved apart on the bench.  
   
The keeper stuck his head in and hollered a warning that anyone who wasn’t quick about moving his lazy ass from there would miss the evening meal. Eoin at once rose and hastened from the hot moist darkness, running out to throw himself headfirst into the snow piled outside. It stung and burned his body like fire, and sent his heart racing wildly. Feeling lightheaded, he scooped up cold handfuls and rubbed his sweaty skin vigorously, the icy sensation intense enough to drive all other thoughts from his conscious mind.  
   
When he hurried back to get dressed, the keeper was waiting impatiently. Eoin avoided looking at Ragnvald, and did not talk to him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Seid** – magic carried out by female “prophetesses”/shamans. 
> 
> **Sjaund** \- funeral ale feast which was a way of socially demarcating the death. Sjaund was celebrated on the seventh day after the person died. Only after the funeral ale could the heirs rightfully claim their inheritance.When the deceased was the master of the farm, the rightful heir would assume the high seat and thereby mark the shift in authorithy. Assuming the high seat was a ritual in its own right and involved the making of vows concerning what the new master planned and promised to achieve.
> 
>  **Valkyries** \- supernatural warrior-maidens, literally "Choosers of the Slain". They ride through the air across the battlefield to choose and bring the bravest warriors killed in battle to Odin’s hall, Valhall, in order to reinforce the gods’ army for the final struggle when the world ends.
> 
>  **“Only a thrall takes vengeance at once (and a coward never)”** – another Grettir’s saga saying. 
> 
> **The godi’s chant** is an amalgamation of stanzas from two Norse poems; Völuspa’s stanza 31 and Reginsmal’s stanza 36, which both lists Valkyrie names. The text has been adapted and changed to fit the funeral rite purpose I use it for here. The Norse seemingly had a great fondness for long lists of strange names in their poems. 
> 
> **Viking funerals/ burials** – deceased persons of rank were either burned on a pyre, or interred in a barrow. Both practices included the deceased person’s important possessions, plus sacrificed animals of various kinds. A warrior would always have his horse and weapons with him. The Oseberg Queen, in addition to the magnificent ship, had the better part of a large farm’s equipment with her in her barrow, and a total of 15 horses, 4 dogs, 2 bulls, and one serving woman! She evidently was planning on living her next life in grand style. 
> 
> The archeological finds that have yielded the most information are of course the barrows where the dead were interred with their possessions intact, but there is also archeological evidence substantiating the practice of burning the deceased and his/her possessions before interment. There is even one well-known surviving eye witness description of such a funeral pyre: The account of the writer and traveler Ibn Fadlan, who joined an embassy from the Caliph in Bagdad and who in AD 932 met (and described) Vikings living along the Russian river Volga and witnessed a chieftain being burned with his ship. Moreover, in the Norse myths the god Balder, Odin’s son, was actually burned on a pyre made of his ship after he died. 
> 
> It is purely my personal conjecture that burning was chosen when it was deemed of less importance that the deceased be interred intact at the clan’s home base in order for him or her to remain there as a supernatural presence working for the clan’s well-being. (Ie. The deceased would be burned when he/she died dishonorably or had experienced little “luck” in life to impart on the ones yet living). And as for Ketil’s pyre being erected in the form of a long-ship, I find that reasonable given the various actual ship burning funerals that we know took place.
> 
>  **The tent-shaped wooden burial chamber** – this is based on the actual chambers found in the Oseberg and the Gokstad ship burials. (The Gokstad find held the ship burial in AD 900 of a man in his 50s, it was excavated in 1880. His body lay within a makeshift tent-shaped burial chamber on the ship, and he had a lot of grave goods with him, including 12 horses, 6 dogs - and a peacock!) 
> 
> **Full-trui** – the one god in the large pantheon that held a Norseman’s special and full allegiance. 
> 
> **Laugar-day** – “bath day”. (The Norse word has been slightly altered to become modern-day “Lördag” which is Scandinavian for Saturday).
> 
>  **Ratatoskr** – Name of the squirrel that lives in the branches of the world tree Yggdrasil. Ratatoskr runs up and down in the branches, carrying tidings, messages and gossip between the eagle in the tree-top and the dragon living under the roots. 
> 
> **Odin at King Geirröd’s** – this tale is told in the poem Grimnesmal. King Geirröd does not know that the man he has captured is Odin, and Odin refuses to reveal his identity, so the king places his captive without any water to drink between two blazing fires for eight days to torture the truth from him. Needless to say this story does not end well for King Geirröd.


	22. Chapter 22

After Ketil’s funeral ale Arna remained at the main farm. The advanced pregnancy was taking its toll on her, and she gratefully left many of the mistress’s daily duties in Ragnhild’s capable hands. Ragnhild for her part promised to stay on till after the new heir had been born, but thereafter wanted to leave and return to her kin in the south. Her stay in the valley had already lasted much longer than she’d anticipated.  
   
Einnis rode back to Einstad, leaving the clan’s seat to Ragnhild and Arna to manage between them with the help of Svein. After all, the routines on the family’s ancient farmstead were well rehearsed and known by all, whether it came to taking out the manure, ploughing, sowing or seeing to the lambing and calving. At Einstad on the other hand, there were countless decisions to be made concerning the activities on the farm and in the fields as it entered its first season of cultivation. Every task had to be established and overseen, responsibilities distributed, and difficulties dealt with as they arose.  
   
Arna’s servant woman, who had taken over the keys at Einstad, managed the daily food preparation and processing, and some weaving on the side. But there was no doubt that the Einstad household was limping along without an experienced mistress to manage the indoor activities. As for the out-of-doors, Einnis had to be there. He worked long days doing all he could to ensure his new farm would prosper, and fell into bed alone at night, sleeping like a log.  
   
In the early morning hours he would sometimes wake with a small smile of remembered joy and a wet spot on his blanket. Other times he would stretch and lie spread-eagled for a moment, reminding himself through his body’s movements that he was alone, and then reach one hand down to bring himself to completion with quick strong pulls on his rigid member. Biting his lip, he’d keep his eyes firmly shut and in addition closely covered with his left hand, as if to forcibly keep the secrets of his mind and memory inside his head, hidden from the light of day.  
 

\- x - 

   
Einnis had planned on returning back home well before the day that Arna believed herself due, but their child was in a hurry and came two full weeks early. A messenger rode into the Einstad yard one afternoon in early summer, bringing Einnis the news that Arna was in labor. Einnis threw himself on his horse to return home as fast as he could. The tracks were dry now and covered with flowers and green summer grass, and he sped southwards as rapidly as the horse would go. Nevertheless he was too late.  
   
Ragnhild came out to meet him as soon as he dismounted in the yard. She looked weary and disheveled, but wore a big smile.  
   
“Congratulations, Einnis Eldhug. You have a fine and healthy daughter. Arna had a hard time of it, now she’s just fallen asleep. She was brave and strong throughout. You’ve got a good wife, a woman to be proud of.”  
   
Einnis thanked her, smiling widely, and in spite of his eagerness he took time to change his sweaty tunic and wash himself before tip-toeing into the room where Arna and the babe slept. Several lamps were burning in the room, and a big knife glinted from the wall above Arna’s bed. One of Arna’s women sat to the side, watching over mother and child this first important day in the baby’s life. Einnis nodded in her direction and stepped over to look down on his two sleeping girls. The scrunched-up red little face of his daughter immediately drew his attention, and he let a fingertip touch her tiny cheek for a moment, tenderness suffusing his entire being and making him smile with delight as he looked at her in wonder.  
   
Arna was sleeping soundly, her sweat-drenched hair tied into a loose braid. She had angry marks on her lower lip as if she’d bitten into it, and there were large dark smudges under her closed eyes. Einnis sat for a while on the bench next to her, gently stroking her hand that rested limply on the cover, and then went back to the hall.  
   
The whole farm greeted him with a cheer as he entered, and several men thumped his back. Einnis smiled at the commotion and walked over to the High Seat with a spring in his step.  
   
“The best ale for all tonight!” he called out. The declaration was met with a roar of approval.  
 

\- x - 

   
The next day he once more sat in the High Seat and looked down on the naked baby as Ragnhild ceremonially placed her tiny form in his lap.  
   
“Now receive your daughter, Einnis Elmarson,” she said formally, and stepped back.  
   
Einnis looked down on the defenseless little being, holding her with one strong but gentle hand as she writhed and mewled like a kitten. He hastened to pour the waiting water over her. Though it had been warmed and was lukewarm, it made her cry louder.  
   
“This is my daughter, and her name is Arna….”  
   
Gasps could be heard through the entire hall, and he quickly continued. “She is being named for her kinswoman and great-grandmother, my father-in-law Mjod’s mother Arna Finnsdottir, who lived a long life with much luck.”  
   
He paused then lifted a golden object from the bench. “As her name-giving gift she shall have this pendant, which her mother will guard for our daughter till she can wear it in good health herself.”   
   
There was a rustling sound as everyone sat back down, relieved. For a moment it had sounded as if she was being named for her own mother, and such a thing was unheard of. Naming a child for a living person tied a knot in the clan that would end it, as everyone knew – it would wither and die. No-one who was still alive could live again in a newborn child. It was against the very order of life and death. Satisfied now that all was being done according to custom the farm’s people muttered forth their wishes for good health, long life and the gods’ protection for the little girl.  
   
When little Arna had been brought back to her mother and the feast was at an end, Einnis stepped into the room and greeted his wife warmly, smiling as he held her tight and thanking her for the gift of their fine daughter. Arna was sitting up against the wall, supported by many down pillows at her back, and had just finished an attempt at nursing the babe. She sighed.  
   
“I know how much you surely wanted a son, Einnis. So did I. But we will have more children, and our little girl is a good start. Isn’t she perfect? They told me who you named her for. I was surprised.”  
   
Einnis gestured self-deprecatingly. “I wanted to give her every advantage, and to name her after someone who was nothing but lucky in life. Your mother died in childbirth, and mine drowned. But Mjod’s mother lived a rich life, and a long one, and had many children and grandchildren. I hope for the same for our little Arna.”  
   
Arna leaned her head tiredly back against the pillows and closed her eyes, the swaddled baby resting on her lap.  
   
“That’s good….”  
   
The woman who had been trusted with waking over mother and child stepped over and picked up the baby, carefully holding it against herself before leaning down to place the little one safely in her snug cradle, an heirloom at the farm. Its headboard showed dragon shapes glaring out towards either side of the room, warning malevolent forces to stay far away from the newest little clan member.  
   
Einnis looked at the tiny form with happy eyes, but spoke to Arna. “You rest now. I’ll be back in the morning, and I suppose you should expect the first visitors with Norns’ porridge arriving then too. We have a beautiful daughter, Arna. I could wish for no more.”  
 

\- x - 

   
The next day dawned bright and fair, and Einnis had been right in his prediction. Even before noon the first neighboring farm’s mistress rode into the yard with a small retinue, bringing along the specially prepared porridge that served as both as recognition of mother and child, and as an offering of thank you to the Norns on behalf of the newborn.  
   
Arna had groomed and washed herself with the help of her women, and was sitting up in bed, dressed in a new tunic and with a bright shawl over her shoulders, a loose coif covering the back of her head, and her tripartite brooch glinting at her throat. Little-Arna lay in her lap as the woman was let into her room. They shared some porridge while the visitor admired and praised the baby and commiserated with Arna over the trials of childbirth.  
   
Several such visits took place during the day, and since Arna was able to nap in-between, she received all the visiting farm mistresses and greeted them politely and gladly, very conscious that these were her peers with whom she needed to be on a friendly standing in her new life as mistress of one of the main farms in the valley.  
   
In the early afternoon Helga Hauksdottir arrived with her offering of Norn’s porridge. She was after all the mistress of one of the largest neighboring farms, and her failing to provide the traditional gift of food could only have been considered a sign of open hostility, though she might have decided to send one of her women over with the large painted bowl. Upon arrival she calmly and politely offered her congratulations and asked to see and greet the mother and baby, but Arna sent word from her room that she was weary and in pain and unable to receive anyone. Ragnhild therefore accepted the Norn’s porridge on the farm’s behalf, and briefly and neutrally thanked Helga for her good wishes and the trouble she’d gone to in preparing and bringing the dish.  
   
Helga considered her words and slowly looked around the farmyard, studying the people and houses for a moment before nodding her understanding gracefully. Once more she offered her wishes of health and long life for the newborn, and then excused herself. Her face set in a calm but inscrutable expression and her head held high, she re-mounted her horse and cantered proudly out of the yard, the farm’s many eyes following her until she passed from sight.  
   
In the evening as Einnis was sitting with Arna, watching her struggling to nurse their daughter before helping her place the babe back in the cradle. He asked her then why she hadn’t received Helga. Arna looked up sharply, the sudden look of displeasure on her tired face very much at odds with the tender way she had just cradled her daughter against herself.  
   
“The woman who caused your brother and my kinsman’s untimely death, who has harmed the clan like few others, did you really want her to lay her cold eyes on your newborn daughter?”  
   
“We do have to find a way forward and to live together peacefully here in the valley,” Einnis said cautiously, looking surprised at the normally so calm Arna’s heated outburst.  
   
Arna snorted derisively. “That one – too high and mighty by half. You’d think she was Gyda Eiriksdottir herself, the way she carries on. Stringing your brother along…. you heard yourself what he said of her!”  
   
Einnis looked down uncomfortably. “There is more to be said about his dealings with her, and two sides to the story. Helga is not much to blame for Ketil’s fate, I think. Ketil admitted as much himself, the last day he lived. He acted with scarce honor where she was concerned.”  
   
“Einnis!” Arna gasped, alarmed. “Do not speak ill of the dead!”  
   
“No, no, I won’t. I’ll say no more,” Einnis hastily replied. “But neither do I think a feud with Helga is warranted. And as for Ulv, when she marries him….”  
   
“Would you sit by and do nothing when your brother’s bane moves in next door and starts flaunting his enjoyment of what Ketil was denied? That man, who mocked your brother beyond all endurance?”  
   
“Ketil agreed to the terms of the Holmgang. I believe I am honoring his decision in accepting the outcome of the fight,” Einnis said, his voice low. “And though I would rather see Ulv move far away instead of closer to us, I do not think Ketil would want to cause Helga more grief. In fact, I know he wouldn’t.”  
   
Arna shook her head, blood rising into her cheeks. “Helga, Helga…. I think she must secretly be a volva, the way she beguiles all men!”  
   
Einnis looked at her in wonder. “You yourself cautioned me that I shouldn’t get embroiled in my brother’s fight, should remember that our child needed a father who was alive and well,” he pointed out.  
   
“Yes, little-Arna needs you and so do I. We need you to live respected and with honor, Einnis. We need to know that you will stand up for us and for the clan’s interests, and not back down humbly to have peace at any cost. I fear that in this matter people will say you count the clan’s dignity and pride at very little worth.”  
   
“It will be as I have decided,” Einnis said firmly, his eyes narrowing. “Unless Ulv is unwise enough to stir up further unrest or enmity between us, either through word or deed, I intend to pay Ketil’s dues and let the matter rest.”

Arna glared at him. “As you wish and command, husband mine. I will not speak of it again.”  
   
Einnis opened his mouth to reply, but Arna closed her eyes and quickly overrode him, her drawn face pale now except for the angry red spots on her cheekbones. “I need my rest, I am very weary. I must sleep. Please leave us.”  
   
Einnis sat there staring at her for a moment, then rose, stopped to look down into the cradle, and silently left the room.  
 

\- x - 

   
Gunnar Gavlpryd was much praised for the magnificent High Seat poles he’d carved, and he and Eoin were well rewarded for their work. They returned to Kaupang pleased with the achievement, but also happy to be back home and to step in through their own door at last. Muirenn greeted them warmly, equally eager to move back to the little house where she was her own mistress and wouldn’t have to live on the sufferance of Torgeirr’s great-aunt.  
   
She looked at Eoin with equanimity, wordlessly signaling that she was ready to let bygones be bygones. He hugged her and smiled, before taking Sverri from her arms.  
   
“Little one, how are you?” He lifted the boy into the air and watched Sverri’s happy face as the toddler squealed with glee.  
   
“Now look, how you’ve grown, big man! And you’ve got teeth too!”  
   
“So he has,” Muirenn said. “His teething hasn’t been a joy to live through, I can assure you. And there’s more to come, so you won’t miss out on all of it.”  
   
The boy meanwhile turned restless and writhed in Eoin’s grip, wailing in irritation. Muirenn rolled her eyes at her son. “He’s looking for Sleipner. I think you could no less separate the two of them than a saint from his halo.”  
   
Eoin laughed and put the boy down on the blanket on the floor where the eight-legged horse was waiting for its owner. “There you go, little one. You’ve inherited your mother’s temper, it seems!”  
   
Muirenn rolled her eyes again, this time at Eoin, but she was smiling.  
   
With that the two men settled comfortably back in Gunnar’s house. The next assignment was the carving of a ceremonial wagon for one of the local hovs. They could finish the separate pieces in Gunnar’s own workshop, and work on several smaller pieces besides, sleigh decorations, tent poles, even toys for the market.  
   
Though they made some few trips out of Kaupang to deliver and assemble larger carved pieces, mostly they stayed in town and witnessed how Kaupang came alive again. The first trade ships of the season sailed to shore, the storehouses were filling up, traders set up their stalls, the ale halls opened for business, and long-ships were being tarred and overseen along the beaches outside of town. New ships would also take shape in the building berths, and Gunnar had been hired to carve the stem and prow decorations for one local lord’s new long-ship, a vessel with elegant lines and majestically sweeping dimensions. The carving of such a ship was an honor, and would take him the larger part of the summer to complete.  
   
Ragnvald Arason Ratatoskr arrived in Kaupang like he’d said, to stay there for the trade season. Eoin sometimes saw him at the wharf or walking to the ale hall, but didn’t speak to him until one evening when he bumped into the man on the track leading from the market. Ragnvald greeted Eoin with a wide smile and a gleam in his eyes, proving as talkative as ever as he turned to introduce the Irishman to his two warrior companions. He insisted that Eoin join them in the ale hall, and all four of them sat together sharing draughts of ale for a while, talking about the trading and the news from around Kaupang and from the king’s recent battles. Eoin enjoyed himself more than he’d have expected, but after some time excused himself and left without having spoken one word with Ragnvald alone.

\- x - 

When summer was in full bloom, and little Sverri had just turned one year old, Torgeirr Haraldson and his wife came down to Kaupang. Torgeirr as always had trading to see to, and he wanted to greet his son. So did Sigrid. The two of them walked down one sunny afternoon to Gunnar’s workshop, and a flustered Muirenn led them to the seats of honor and hurriedly set forth the best ale. Sverri came crawling like lightning across the floor, grabbed hold of Torgeirr’s trousers and heaved himself to his feet, smiling proudly of himself at this immense feat. Torgeirr laughed delightedly and scooped the boy up in his arms, rising to lift him into the air, throwing him higher and catching him, whooping all the while. Sverri hollered with joy.  
   
At last Torgeirr sat back down, held the boy close and turned to Sigrid. “It’s high time you met your kinsman. This now is Sverri Torgeirrson. Isn’t he a fine little fellow?”  
   
Sigrid smiled at the boy and more so at her obviously very proud husband. “Indeed he is. He looks just like you, and I cannot give him higher praise!” She turned to Muirenn and smiled graciously. “I can see that the boy has had a good life and a caring mother. I honor you for raising such a fine son.”  
   
Sigrid looked confident and happy, stately in bearing and mien, assured in her position as treasured wife and capable mistress of a wealthy farm and with riches of her own. Her fine dress and conspicuous jewelry signaled her status, but despite all that her air was open and friendly. She was as slim as ever. Though she had now been married well over a year, there had been no sign yet that an heir would be born to her and her husband.  
   
The five of them sat talking for a little while, speaking of the activities in town, the trading that Torgeirr planned, and the carving assignments that Gunnar had obtained. Eventually Muirenn rose to start the evening meal, which Torgeirr and Sigrid would stay to share, and Torgeirr carried his son along into Gunnar’s workshop to agree on and weigh the silver that Gunnar owed him. Judging by the happy shrieks coming from the workshop, the boy received more attention than the silver.  
   
Sigrid kept her seat on the bench, looking at Eoin with a polite but curious gaze.  
   
“They say you have developed into a fine woodcarver in your own right, Jaran. You seem to be thriving here in Kaupang. Do you still at times recall my clan’s farm, and Einstad in the distant woods, I wonder?”  
   
Eoin bit his lip, a slight flush rising into his face. All of a sudden anger flared in his eyes, and he spoke challengingly. “Yes, Sigrid Elmarsdottir. I most certainly do … I will never forget my life as a thrall there, for more reasons than one.”  He paused for a moment, uncertain all of a sudden, then plunged on. “That being so, is there any news you might tell me of your family, mistress?”  
   
Sigrid sighed. “Oh yes, there is much to say, and not all of it good, I’m afraid.” She looked at him, pausing for a moment as if carefully weighing which words to use and how much to say. “My brother was killed in Holmgang this spring. A chieftain’s son challenged him over a matter of slander, honor, and love….. “  
   
Eoin all of a sudden turned as white as Sigrid’s linen coif. He stared at her wordlessly, eyes wide, not fully able to comprehend what she had just said. Sigrid paused and studied him, taking in his reaction. She drew a sharp breath and looked down into her lap, waiting for a beat before continuing her tale.    
   
“Ketil’s death proves that fate and fortune do not always go hand in hand, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Losing him for the second time was a terrible blow to our clan. Now my brother Einnis has assumed the High Seat.”  
   
Eoin relaxed his death grip on the edge of the bench, though the beat of his pulse was still plainly visible in his throat. “But…. what about Einstad?” he eventually muttered in a low voice, clearing his constricted throat to get the words out.  
   
“Einstad has been finished. Einnis sends word it’s a good farm. Your hard work there did not prove in vain, have no fear,” Sigrid said mildly. She looked into his eyes. “Einnis and his wife are managing both farms for now, though they will have to find a better arrangement soon, if Einnis takes on more duties and responsibilities in the valley.”  
   
She paused again, and smiled. “Einnis’s wife Arna bore him a daughter only one month’s time ago. I haven’t seen my newborn kinswoman yet, but Torgeirr’s aunt Ragnhild who has just returned south to us assures me that baby Arna is a little beauty, healthy and strong and set to make the clan proud.”  
   
“Then I’m….. I’m happy for your brother, and for his wife, and for your whole clan, mistress. Please greet your brother from me when you see him, and tell him that I wish him well.”  
   
Sigrid looked at him pensively, and opened her mouth to speak, but halted herself. After a moment she limited her reply to thanking him for his good wishes, and promised to pass his words on to Einnis when there might be an opportunity to do so. More was not said between them, for Torgeirr came galloping into the room, carrying Sverri piggy-back and laughing loudly while also calling for Muirenn to take her son and make him behave, since he wouldn’t listen to his father. The boy was over-excited by all the attention and was yelling at the top of his lungs, clearly wanting Torgeirr to go faster. The din rose to the rafters as the little boy’s father-horse was spurred on to go galloping many times around the hearth, neighing loudly and laughing heartily.  
   
All the other grown-ups in the room had to chuckle at the sight, but out of the corner of his eye Eoin noticed that though Sigrid’s lips were pulled up in a smile, her eyes were both sad and solemn as she watched Torgeirr and his son.  
   
\---  
   
In the following weeks Torgeirr came to spend some time with his son every day, and on occasion he brought him back to his clan’s house for a spell. Sigrid also visited a few more times, but kept in the background and didn’t speak to either Muirenn or Eoin alone.  
   
One day some time after mid-summer Torgeirr said he had concluded his business and would be returning home to his farm. Before leaving town he wanted to talk with Eoin and Muirenn, and sat down with them and Gunnar one evening after Sverri had fallen asleep, Sleipner as always sharing his bed-space. It was a rainy, slightly chilly day, and Muirenn had put more logs on the cooking fire for the additional warmth they would provide. Now the four of them sat on the benches by the hearth, a bowl of ale and one with sour milk in front of them.  
   
Torgeirr explained that he wanted to talk through what would happen after his previous thralls’ one year of service was as an end. “Soon it will be one full year after your liberation ale, and you will have more freedom to make plans for yourself,” he said. “I wanted to know your plans and your thoughts, and to let you have mine.”  
   
Eoin looked over at Muirenn, but she kept her eyes downcast and didn’t speak up.  
   
“I am learning much, working with Gunnar,” Eoin eventually said. “It is an inspiration to me. If he agrees, I would continue working with him till I can call myself a proper wood-carver in my own right. That will give me much freedom to choose my path, for wood-carvers can make a living many places. If I attempt a return to Ireland one day and even to the monastery, God grant that it still stands and that the Lord protects it, as a woodcarver I could contribute much to the work there, too.”  
   
Gunnar nodded at Eoin’s words, and both he and Torgeirr looked pleased. Torgeirr looked questioningly at Muirenn, his eyes roving back and forth between her and Eoin. “What about you, Muirenn? I suppose it is no secret that if the two of you now want to marry, I would certainly support it and also give you a decent dowry,” he said.  
   
Muirenn looked uncomfortable and blushed. Eoin kept silent.  
   
”I have been wondering...I sometimes do long for my home. My home in Ireland,” Muirenn said slowly. “Perhaps….”  
   
Torgeirr sighed. ”I understand that. Losing one’s clan is a harsh fate. But Muirenn, I must speak plainly. Sverri is my only son. I will not let him travel out of the land and over the seas to an unknown future in a ravaged countryside. If you go, you must leave the boy with me.” He drew a deep breath. “And more than that, an unmarried woman couldn’t hope to make such a journey by herself, even if there was a trade ship willing to take her. A woman would need a husband and several guards or kinsmen besides to travel that distance and not end up a thrall, to be sold at one of the markets down south. And should you be willing to take that risk, I would stop you from attempting it. I do not want Sverri to grow to manhood not knowing what became of his mother, and whether or not she ekes out a life of hardship as someone’s thrall.”  
   
Muirenn bent her head, and Torgeirr sighed again and leaned forward to briefly squeeze her hand. “I am sorry. But I won’t lie to you. I think the best course forward is for you to find a good husband and to build your life here. I will consider my men and whether there is any one of them I deem fitting for you."  
   
Muirenn looked up sharply, protest evident in her every feature, but Torgeirr continued undeterred. “People think that you are Jaran’s fridla. And but for Sverri I wouldn’t have had any objections to that. But the boy is getting older and will soon enough understand what people say and notice the scarce regard they have for his mother. Since he remains my only son, and therefore my heir, I will not have him mocked or belittled in any way if it can be avoided. He shouldn’t have to hear other children laughing at him and calling his mother a foreign wanton, or worse.”  
   
Both Eoin and Muirenn looked at Torgeirr in pale-faced dismay. Neither had heard such harsh and unforgiving speech from him before. Muirenn bent her head and balled her hands into fists in her lap. Eoin looked at her and knew that he could not keep silent. He glanced at Torgeirr and Gunnar. “Excuse us for a moment, please.” With that he switched to speaking Gaelic, though his words came slowly.

“Muirenn, do not grieve. It is better for both of us that Torgeirr speaks so plainly. I will do the same. I care for you, very much so. I care for Padraig too, you know I do - he’s almost like a son to me. I want nothing but the best for the both of you. Perhaps this is the Lord’s way of showing us a joint path in life. It certainly seems so. I will gladly marry you, and strive to build a good life here for the three of us, till such a day comes that we may after all return to Ireland and take up our old lives. But I can only marry you on one condition, and it’s important to me that you know about it and agree to it.” He drew a breath, conscious of the two men who were listening, sure they would grow impatient.  
   
“There is an event I’m hoping and praying for, one that would change my whole life, though it seems more unlikely every day that it’ll ever come to pass. Yet if it does, I will leave you and the boy, and go where the Lord and my heart tell me to. If that happens, you will have to find your own way in life from then on out, with the help of Torgeirr, no doubt. But I can say no more about it.”    
   
Muirenn frowned and opened her mouth to speak. She was clearly baffled by Eoin’s strange secretiveness and wanted to ask questions. Eoin however hastily turned to the two other men, and reverted to Norse. “I have told Muirenn I will marry her, if she deems that to be best for us, though I cannot promise that God will not thereafter tell me to go elsewhere in life and to leave her,” he said. “No man knows what the future holds, but...  
   
Gunnar had been sitting quietly to the side, watching and listening and letting the ale bowl pass him by. Now he interrupted Eoin and spoke up, addressing Muirenn, his voice strong and clear. “I would be honored to marry you, Muirenn – if you will have me.”  
   
Three sets of surprised eyes swung Gunnar’s way. He didn’t back down, but took their astonishment in stride. “You’re a good woman, and a fine-looking one, and you’ve got a will of your own and plenty of backbone. I like that. You will soon be ready to negotiate my assignments and my pay as well as I ever managed myself. We’d make a good team. And I am fond of Sverri too. So if you’d want me…. ” He paused for a moment. “I have few relatives, only a sister living, and she’s been married up North these many years. As my wife, no-one would dare disparage you. I have earned some respect around town, I’d let you share in that for what it’s worth.”  
   
Muirenn blushed. “Gunnar, you surprise me! It is true I have had a good life here in your house.” She was silent for a moment. The three men kept quiet too, averting their eyes, listening to the fire crackling on the hearth and the soft patter of rain outside the door and around the smoke vent.  
   
“Yes, a good life,” Muirenn continued. “But what of my faith? I cannot change that, not for anyone.”  
   
Never a spiritual man, Gunnar merely shrugged. “As long as the marriage is legal under the laws, my wife’s god otherwise is nobody’s business but hers, and not something that I would want to meddle in.” A grin flashed across his otherwise dour features. “I know better than to poke that particular sleeping bear. And anyway, if I should ever decide to move from here and set up my business elsewhere, who’s to say a Christ-follower for a wife might not earn me additional work?”  
   
Muirenn was stunned. “You honor me, Gunnar Grimson. But I need time to think through all that I have heard tonight. It has been a day of hard truths and hopes shattered.” She cast a brief glance at Eoin before letting her eyes rest on Torgeirr, her face closed and her lips twin pale lines.  
   
“I beg you all for a few days, no more than three at the most, to consider my options. After that I will let you have my answer and tell you which way I choose in life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Norn’s porridge** – It was tradition that the neighboring women peers of the newly-made mother would present her with the gift of such “lying-in porridge”. This tradition lasted well into Christian times, but in some places the food dish retained its name of Norn’s porridge many centuries after Christianization, and the dish would be marked with 3 wooden pegs for the 3 goddesses of fate. 
> 
> **Gyda Eiriksdottir** \- the daughter of king Eirik of the kingdom of Hordaland on the west coast of Norway. Another minor king, Harald Halvdanson ‘Fairhair’, according to tradition fell in love with Gyda, but she refused to marry him and allegedly said she would not be any man’s wife unless he were the king of all Norway. Harald accepted her challenge, promised to not cut his hair till he was in fact ready to marry her as king of Norway, and set about conquering all the other minor kingdoms and unifying the country under his rule. “Saga” takes place in the middle of this process of conquest and unification, when Gyda’s haughty words must have reverberated through the land. (Ca. AD 872 king Harald won the final battle, became king of a unified Norway, cut his hair – and married Gyda.) 
> 
> **Volva** – Woman who practiced shamanistic / prophetic rituals (called seid) that balanced on the verge between religion and magic. A volva lived outside of the strict norms applied to other women within the clan-based society, and was met with awe, fear and deep respect. She was only called for in the utmost need, for instance when crops failed or it was necessary to learn the outcome of major future events. The volva’s practices at times likely took place under the influence of hallucinogens of some sort. Her symbol of “authority” was a staff. 
> 
> **Sleipner** – Odin's eight-footed horse. 
> 
> **Fate and fortune do not always go hand in hand** – yet another Grettir’s saga saying!
> 
>  **Fridla** – free-born woman who is someone’s mistress


	23. Chapter 23

Muirenn kept herself apart as much as possible the next few days, though she cared for Sverri as always. Both Eoin and Gunnar gave her the space she so evidently required, and went about their work quietly and without speaking about the future. 

In the early evening of the second day Muirenn asked Eoin to come outside with her to sit in the open space behind the house for a spell. Gunnar kept a wooden bench of his own making there for summer afternoons like this; pleasantly warm and comfortable, with flies buzzing about the sun-baked timber walls and the sound of distant laughter and good cheer coming from the harbor and the neighboring houses.  
   
Muirenn brought Sverri along and set him down in the high grasses where he immediately started pulling up tufts of weeds and summer flowers to feed to his friend Sleipner. She sat down next to Eoin and watched her son in silence for a little while. There seemed to be a hint of distance in her eyes as she looked at the boy, as though she were protecting her heart from anticipated pain, laying the groundwork for a barrier to be built in a hurry if required.  
   
Eoin waited patiently, not disturbing her thoughts. At last she leaned her head against the wall and sighed. “Torgeirr does care for his son,” she said. “There’s no denying that.”  
   
“We all of us do,” Eoin said.  
   
“You all care so much for the boy that you’re willing to take his mother as part of the bargain, is that what you mean?” Muirenn retorted with a brittle laugh. Eoin had no reply, and just reached over to briefly squeeze her hand.  
   
She sent him a side-long glance, and grew serious. “I talked to Gunnar while you were at the lumberyard today. He told me…. He promised me that if I marry him, and I afterwards one day start to long for Ireland so much that I can find no joy nor peace of mind here in Kaupang  anymore, he’ll move back home with me. He believes his fame will go with him and that he’ll still have work enough. Perhaps there’ll even be more to do there, he says, since the Norse townships are being built for the first time and they’ll need all manner of wood carvings for their new houses and such…. Though God grant they will not get more powerful in Ireland than they already are!”  
   
She shook her head, saddened. “The Norse have built a stronghold and a township on the east coast. Dubh Linn, it’s called, and he thinks it sounds promising.”  
   
Eoin nodded at her words, but kept quiet, not wanting to disturb her now that two days’ worth of Muirenn pondering her options was finding expression.  
   
She looked into his eyes. “Gunnar is a kind man. I do trust him to keep his word….as long as he stays sober.” She bit her lip and looked away. “But if he starts drinking again, he won’t be himself and I couldn’t rely on him. Not where my own future was concerned, and certainly not Sverri’s.”  
   
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring down to the ground at her feet. “The Norse are ravaging our land. And Gunnar is a heathen. Surely I would be committing a dire sin and endangering my immortal soul if I willingly married such a one? I do call to mind the example set by St. Lucy and St. Dorothy and many more such as they, and then I feel ashamed at my own weakness. They had to choose between marriage to a heathen and martyrdom, and they held to their faith and trusted in God and rose above the fear and the torment. Yet here I am, thinking I might marry Gunnar simply for my own convenience!” She grimaced. “What would my parents say, and our priest? They would be devastated at such a betrayal of our faith and our people!”  
   
Eoin shook his head slowly. “I don’t think we were cut out to be saints, either one of us, Muirenn. Few people are. We just have to live our lives as best we can, even so. The virgin martyrs, blessed be their memory, were not only told to marry heathens, but to foreswear the Lord Christ. There’s a difference.”  
   
He was silent for a moment, choosing each word with care when he continued. “I think that… we may in our own way serve as examples for the Norse heathens to see, if we strive to live as good Christians. Then it cannot be very wrong to share a home and a bed with one who hasn’t yet received the Lord as his savior. Our prayers and presence might lead that heathen to God, and so save for Heaven a soul that otherwise would be lost to the fires of eternal damnation.”  
   
Eoin paused again, reflecting. “I sometimes feel like St. Bréanainn, who sailed across dangerous waters, seeking unknown shores. In the monastery we heard tell of other monks, leaving Ireland in rudderless boats, placing their lives in God’s hands. The two of us crossed the sea much like that, Muirenn, not knowing what awaited us. The Lord alone sees where our road leads next. We should trust in His grace and guiding, and go forward unafraid. Remember, St. Bréanainn reached the Isle of the Blessed.”  
   
His eyes took on a far-off look. “The saints rejoice forever in Heaven, but I know it’s possible to experience fleeting glimpses of Heaven here on earth. That’s why I am certain God has not abandoned us, and He never will.”  
   
Muirenn was staring at him, her eyes wide and her hands firmly clasped together. “You know more about these things than I do, Eoin. You’re a man of God. And what you say speaks both to my heart and my common sense.”  
   
She hesitated for a moment, her eyes now shimmering with unshed tears “But marriage is such a serious commitment. Sharing a bed every night of your life with someone that…. “  
   
Interrupting herself, she shrugged imperceptibly, and looked to the side, away from Eoin. Her voice had a bitter and sharp edge to it when she spoke again. “I know how seriously you take your vows to God. I am certain you wouldn’t let yourself yield to the temptations of the flesh - not for any reason.”  
   
Eoin turned beet red with sudden embarrassment, outdoing the slow flush rising in Muirenn’s cheeks. The moment of heated desire cut short that quiet Christ mass night would always lie between them. She hurriedly changed the subject.  
   
“Do you not want to tell me more about this mysterious event you’re hoping and praying for, Eoin, so that I may understand?”  
   
He shook his head. “I have been honest as far as I may, but I can say no more.”  
   
“But don’t you want to go home to Ireland? Don’t you dream of leaving these dark woods and heathen, barbaric customs behind? Don’t you long to kneel down in your monastery once more, grateful to be back among your own?”  
   
“Yes, of course I long for Ireland, always. My heart is torn. But I know without a shadow of a doubt which force has the strongest hold on me, and it tells me to stay here…. At least for now.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It is easier for a man. No-one tells me I must marry so that people will not judge me and call me vile names. And even if they did, I could tell them about my vow of celibacy. They may not comprehend its significance, and they may mock and jeer, but even so they do understand that such things matter to the Irish.”  
   
Eoin paused again, looking over to Sverri who was sitting on the ground still, lost in his own world of grass and weeds to feed his wooden horse, building a haphazard, nearly boy-sized haystack.  
   
“Recall that your son will remain Norse,” he said gently.  
   
Muirenn flared up. “He has been baptized, the Lord will know his own!”  
   
“So He will,” Eoin said evenly. “But I know you will not love your son any less for growing up Norse, than if his only name was Padraig and he was even now tearing up tufts of the green grass outside your childhood home. Even if you do one day go back to Ireland, your heart will always be tied to this land where your son will grow to manhood and his line will flourish, God be willing.”  
   
She sighed. “All my options seem flawed. The future’s so uncertain, it’s like walking in the dark, knowing there may be quicksand ahead. I thought I had made my decision, but I am still in doubt.”  
   
Eoin once more took her hand. “I think in the end, instead of endlessly weighing the merits and the faults of the ways that are open to you, you should look into your heart and find its single most important desire. Once you’re sure about that, choose the path that offers you the best chance of one day seeing that one cherished wish of yours fulfilled, if God will but grant it. That is what I myself have done.”  
   
Muirenn looked into his eyes, and a small smile suddenly bloomed on her lips. “You are right, Eoin. That is good advice. Thank you.”  
   
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, her posture calm and her face concentrated in thought, frowning slightly. Eoin waited patiently by her side, lost in his own thoughts and dreams as the sun dipped towards the woods. Sverri had fallen asleep in the grass, and the evening shadows grew long and stretched their dark shapes across the field towards the three of them.  
   
Eventually Muirenn looked up to the darkening sky, and drew a deep breath. “I know what to do,” she said firmly.  
   
Eoin sat up in his turn, surprised at the certainty of her pronouncement. “Will you tell me what you’ve decided?”  
   
“Ireland,” she said. “Home. Yes, I choose Ireland. I want to know that when my longing becomes unbearable, when I can stand it here no more, then I can travel back and see my home again. For one day I’ll surely want to go. And when I return there at last I hope my loved ones are still alive and will understand and forgive what I am about to do.”  
 

\- x - 

   
The next day Muirenn accepted Gunnar’s offer of marriage.  
   
The woodcarver was visibly pleased, and sent for Torgeirr to sit down at once with him to work out the arrangement of Muirenn’s modest dowry, bride-gift and mundr. Torgeirr was in a hurry to return home, and told Muirenn that according to Norse law a betrothal was as legal as a marriage, and that she could consider herself married from the day he shook hands with Gunnar on the agreement. But Muirenn heatedly refused to accept such a shortcut and declared that she wouldn’t consider herself wed until they’d had a proper ceremony.  
   
Without delay therefore, Sigrid had one of her women make Muirenn a wedding dress and gifted her with a string of small amber beads to wear at her wedding. She also took care to have the seamstress teach the Irish woman the contents and words of the marriage ceremony so that she would be able to do what was required of her.  
   
And so, with Torgeirr Haraldson and some of his men, Sigrid Elmarsdottir, Eoin and a few of Gunnar’s neighbors and fellow craftsmen as witnesses, Gunnar Grimson took Myrunn the Irish to wife one sunny late-summer day at the horg outside of Kaupang. The location had been chosen to accommodate Muirenn, who that way didn’t need to set foot across the doorstep of a hov in order to make her marriage vows. Torgeirr carried Sverri on his arm, though the boy slept soundly all the while through his mother’s wedding.  
   
The company returned to Torgeirr’s clan house for a cheerful but hastily prepared and rather simple feast, where the groom broke with every tradition in sticking to water and sour milk all evening long.  
   
In the late evening Torgeirr and Sigrid were the only witnesses as Muirenn and Gunnar knelt down to have Eoin lead them haltingly through a brief Christian ritual so that Muirenn could make her marriage vows. He very carefully made the sign of the cross over her head at the end. “In the name of the father, and the son, and the Holy Ghost, I pronounce that you surely are man and wife in the eyes of the Lord.”  
   
Muirenn looked up at him under the simple linen veil, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with emotion. And she smiled.  
 

\- x - 

   
Immediately after his former ambatt’s wedding, Torgeirr and his wife left Kaupang and traveled back north to their own farm, for they had yet another wedding to prepare. Torgeirr’s young sister Jorunn was getting married to one of the many sons of a local chieftain. Though Torgeirr wasn’t the head of their clan, it still fell to him as the older of Jorunn’s brothers to arrange her wedding feast. They had little time now to get everything ready for the festivities.  
   
Muirenn’s and Gunnar’s marriage in the meantime brought very few changes in the daily routines at Gunnar’s house, but every night Muirenn retired with Gunnar to his boxed-in bed. Eoin could hardly fail to hear the noises they made, sometimes long into the night - rhythmic sighs and moans and muted sounds of pleasure.  
   
Muirenn looked tired in the mornings, but not unhappy. She would hum quietly to herself while spinning or preparing the meals, and be more caring and patient with Sverri than she’d been for a while. If Gunnar should place a hand on her shoulder in passing, she would lean into the caress like a cat, nearly purring with contentment, but blushing a shade fit to rival her newly-dyed hair one time when she saw Eoin noticing her reaction.  
   
Gunnar looked no less pleased. There was a gleam in his eyes that Eoin had only ever seen when the wood-carver was about to get blindingly drunk. Gunnar now sometimes looked distracted, as if dreaming while he worked, caressing the wooden objects and their emerging patterns with his sensitive fingertips and smiling secretly to himself.  
   
The newly-weds’ intense couplings and the obvious delight they were taking in each other were impossible to ignore. Eoin’s body and mind stirred with fierce desire and longing as the distinct nightly noises flooded his senses with inescapably vivid memories of Einnis and their winter nights together in the distant woods. He could hear the hearth fire’s crackling, overpowered by deep groans of pleasure in his ear, could feel warm slick skin rubbing his own, could taste and smell musk and sweat and semen, could look into eyes melting with helpless desire, could relive every touch and kiss and breath like flames licking his body. The memories were forever impressed on every fiber of his being.  
   
Eoin tried to keep away from the house as much as possible. That was why, when he bumped into Ragnvald Ratatoskr again, he readily agreed to follow the man for another evening at the ale hall. Once more Eoin was surprised to find that he enjoyed himself. Though sometimes talkative to excess, Ragnvald was cheerful and friendly, and his gaze was open and filled with lively curiosity. Unlike many of the other guards and warriors swarming the ale halls, who frequently communicated by no more than single words and growls and grunts, Ragnvald was a good and eager story-teller. And though he was frequently crude, he was never mean-spirited.   
   
Ragnvald came into contact with many folks along the wharfs and storage-houses, from tradesmen and their guards to well-traveled warriors returning from distant places. That way he learned news of the Kaupang and the world, and if he added some spice to each tale for good measure, still he was an entertaining and informative companion.  
   
Eoin relaxed in his company, feeling inconspicuous as one man among many, enjoying the noise in the hall and the dim smoky atmosphere, vaguely reminiscent of days in the acolyte’s hall in the monastery, if the monks in charge had to step out for a spell. This time Eoin did not make up any excuse to leave early. When they stepped out of the hall in the late hours, slightly wobbly on their legs, Ragnvald leaned heavily on his shoulder, appearing to steady himself, his hand incidentally sliding down Eoin’s arm and across his buttocks.  
   
“How about that sword training I talked about once…. You game?” Ragnvald slurred.  
   
Eoin looked right past him, his eyes going distant and his face sad, but not for long. He drew a deep breath and steadied himself with one hand against the wall, as if suddenly feeling lightheaded.

“Yes,” he said plainly and firmly, his eyes rising to meet Ragnvald’s. “You just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”  
   
Ragnvald’s eyes gleamed in response, catching the light of the ale hall’s torches in the darkness. “Good!” he grinned, and stepped closer to give directions in a low and surprisingly clear and precise voice.

\- x - 

Eoin arrived at the clearing in the early evening the next day. Ragnvald was already sitting on a fallen log, dressed in trousers and a simple tunic, and sharpening his sword with a whet-stone while he waited. He looked up with a smile at Eoin’s approach.  
   
“Wasn’t certain you’d show. It’s good to see you.”  
   
Eoin looked around. The clearing was small and secluded, hidden among tall spruces, and there was a simple little wooden lean-to to the side.  
   
“I promised I’d be here, didn’t I?”  
   
The blond-haired warrior grinned and rose to his feet, pulling his tunic over his head and throwing it to the side. He stretched and flexed his massive shoulders. “Well, get your sword out, pal. Let’s go at it!”   
   
Eoin couldn’t help laughing, amused. “I see that when it’s time for action, you speak much less than usual,” he said. “And I somehow hadn’t expected your sword-fighting today to involve real iron."  
“Ah, come now, there’s a time and a place for everything,” Ragnvald replied and raised his sword to hold it at the ready. “This is the time for first working up an honest sweat, and I can’t do that with my tongue. Though later I may find a use for my mouth that should do the trick. I’ll make you sweat all over and in every way,” he grinned, licking his lips lasciviously.  
   
Eoin chuckled again at Ragnvald’s bold approach. He drew his own sword. “Well, here I am,” he said. “Come get me if you can.”  
   
They circled each other for some time, thrusting and parrying, dancing past each other, sword meeting sword with loud clangs. Ragnvald was a strong and competent fighter, and his bulging muscles gave him the advantage of brute force, but nevertheless he did not overwhelm Eoin who more than once managed to get a thrust in to send the other jumping back wildly. At long last they ended up chest to chest, panting and pushing, blades crossed at the hilts and shuddering with the strain, each trying to force the other’s sword arm to the side. Ragnvald held the pressure up as he looked Eoin straight in the eye, gasping and wheezing, a nod of his head indicating the lean-to.

“Enough now, don’t you think? I’ve got a full ale skin waiting for us.”  
   
Eoin exhaled in a rush and stepped back, still breathing heavily as he lowered both his sword and his eyes and wiped sweat off his brow.  
   
“Sounds good. I won’t mind going in there for a while.”  
   
Once they stepped through the opening to the shadows within they were up against each other, chest to chest as before, gasping, scrabbling for purchase, pulling at each other’s trousers to get them down and off and out of the way. It was fast and hard, frantic and furious, but no less satisfying for all that.  
   
Afterwards they lay comfortably side by side on the blanket Ragnvald had taken care to place on the dirt floor in advance. Spent and drowsy, they looked up to the makeshift ceiling under lazily drooping eyelids.  
   
“How can you be sure no-one will come around here?” Eoin murmured.  
   
“Can’t ever be sure, but I told the others I’d be meeting someone for swordplay. They know what that means – well, near enough. They think I’m tupping some wench or other, so they stay away. I do the same for each of them now and then.”  
   
Eoin had to laugh. “Perhaps every single one of you is secretly meeting up with another man, and all the women have to go without. Ever think of that?”  
   
Ragnvald laughed too. “Oh no, I don’t think so. But if you’re right, that truly would be a jest played on us by Loki himself.” He turned towards Eoin, his glance roving freely over the Irishman’s naked body. “I am pretty good at spotting others like us. Oh yes, I could make you a bet or two, if you’re interested. You’d be surprised. But make one mistake in this game, and you’re dead as well as dishonored. It’s a dangerous sport. It pays to be careful.”  
   
They lay in silence for a while, then Ragnvald tapped Eoin lightly on the arm. “Danger aside, do you want to do this again sometime? Care for another round of swordplay? I’ve had a good time today,” he said, pushing himself up on his elbows and drinking deeply from his ale-skin before passing it on.  
   
“So have I,” Eoin replied before drinking in his turn, his voice quiet. “I wouldn’t say no to a next time.”  
   
When they left the clearing a little while later, properly dressed and walking separately, they had agreed on a day and time when they’d meet up again. Eoin found that he was looking forward to it. He walked on quietly in the gathering dusk, trying to understand his own reactions, examining his feelings.  
   
He knew without a doubt that his heart and his affection still belonged to Einnis, completely and utterly. Sigrid’s news had not changed that. He knew now that Einnis had married, that he had a child, that he was head of his clan with property, riches and obligations. Einnis was more elusive than ever, and yet Eoin knew in his heart of hearts that he was neither willing nor able to stop hoping. If Einnis should need him, if Einnis should want him to, he’d be ready to go to the Norseman, to make a living with him, yes - even to die with him. He wanted a life with Einnis more than anything else. That was his burning passion, that was the one unshakable desire his heart preserved at its very core.  
   
As long as this was so, he would stay in this foreign land far from home, and make a living as well as he might. He would not attempt a return to Ireland till all hope had left him and the Lord told him plainly to accept defeat.  
   
And yet he’d enjoyed his time with Ragnvald. It had been uncomplicated and fun. Eoin was keenly aware that he was lonely. Muirenn and Gunnar’s marriage had brought that back to him. He longed for companionship. Everyday happiness, simple delights. And his body made demands on him that he increasingly struggled to reject, demands that recently had intensified into a nightly torment. In the monastery he had learned to suppress those insistent urges for long periods of time, but after the winter with Einnis he had been fighting a losing battle with himself.  
   
Being with Ragnvald gave him the sustenance he needed to keep going, day by day and night by night away from Einnis, not knowing if this loneliness would last a lifetime. For all his pleasing and cheerful ways, Ragnvald was no more to Eoin than the bland everyday gruel a man would eat to get himself through many a lean day and month, filling the stomach but never slaking the hunger for better and more tempting fare to satisfy the senses and the body, mind and soul. Once a man had tasted truly heavenly delights, everything else would forever seem dull and unfulfilling in comparison.  
   
More than anything Ragnvald served as an easy-going, pleasant reminder of all that he was not. But he helped Eoin to keep going.  
 

\- x - 

   
In the fall of that year Einnis and Arna traveled to Jorunn Haraldsdottir’s marriage.

Einnis was eager to meet his sister and brother-in-law again. Arna was no less anxious to travel out of the valley, for the wedding between Ulv Sigurdarson and Helga Hauksdottir was about to be celebrated at Helga’s farm with much pomp and circumstance. Even though Arna had been unwell for some time after little-Arna’s birth, she was adamant in her desire to be far away when every other person of rank in the valley gathered at the neighboring farm to cheer this man who should have been dead and buried, if the Norns had paid proper attention.  
   
Einnis therefore took his wife and daughter and rode south, accompanied by several of the farm’s guards and one of Arna’s servant-women.

Their meeting with Torgeirr and Sigrid was both hearty and happy. To the proud parents’ delight, Einnis’s sister and brother-in-law could not praise little-Arna enough. There was scant time for catching up, though, and less time for quiet togetherness, for the wedding was large and lively and measured up to Torgeirr’s own in every way, meeting the expectations of the most demanding guests and becoming a small legend in its own right. Three sword fights broke out among the wedding guests during the days of the wedding revels, and two men had to be carried home on stretchers because they were too wounded to ride.  
   
Einnis and Arna for once could enjoy a feast as honored guests but without responsibilities or duties of their own. Being freed of their many everyday obligations and chores did them both good.  
   
When the marriage feast was at an end at last, Torgeirr’s farm returned to normal, though with barns and byres, storehouses and sheds all emptied of much of their contents. Einnis and Arna stayed on for some days, enjoying the quiet after the storm with the master and mistress of the farm.  
   
Little-Arna had turned fussy and was giving her mother scant rest by day or by night, so the last evenings of their stay Arna left early to catch some much-needed sleep on their bench in the guest-hall. One night Einnis was left sitting alone with Sigrid, who sent for a bowl of the best ale and suggested they play a game of tafl, the way they would sometimes do of an evening in the old days shortly after their parents died.  
   
While contemplating the game, and now and then moving the pieces, they spoke of all that had happened since they’d last met at Einnis’s wedding. Einnis gave his sister the details of Ketil’s last days and the Holmgang that killed him, and described the funeral. Based on her younger brother’s tale Sigrid agreed that they had little cause to keep a feud with Ulv’s clan alive, though she said that the young man had acted both unwisely and rashly in challenging Ketil, and so in causing her brother’s death. She cautioned Einnis to keep his distance from such an unpredictable hot-head as far as their clan’s honor would allow it.  
   
For a while brother and sister discussed the terms reached for dividing and managing Ketil’s inheritance between them. Their talk then turned to other matters, to the birth of little-Arna, and to the events and activities at Einstad and in the valley. Sigrid was keen to learn as much as she could of all the goings-on in her old home, and she asked many questions that Einnis answered more sparingly than she would have liked, his eyes rarely meeting hers as he focused on the board game.  
   
Sigrid eventually turned her talk to Kaupang and her recent stay there, and mentioned that she and Torgeirr had attended the marriage of little Sverri Torgeirrson’s Irish mother. Einnis ducked his head over the board and froze, his shoulders hunched and his hand hovering forgotten in the air. He had been about to move one of his pawns.  
   
“You’d perhaps expected to hear that she would be marrying that one-time Irish thrall of yours, Jaran the loysing?” Sigrid asked. When Einnis neither moved nor answered, his sister went right on. “Well, she did not. She married Gunnar Gavlpryd, the famed wood-carver. The marriage pleases Torgeirr. He wants his son to live in a proper and well-respected home. But your Jaran both lives and works with Gunnar now. They tell me he is well on his way to becoming a wood-carver of note himself. And though his year of service after liberation is soon out, he intends to continue working in Kaupang, at least till he has learned his trade.”  
   
Einnis still did not reply, but he exhaled audibly, as if he’d been holding his breath. His hand descended on the board to grab a pawn, seemingly at random.  
   
Sigrid continued, undeterred. “Jaran asked me to bring you greetings – to tell you that he wishes you well.”  
   
Einnis scoffed, barely managing to force his words out. “Who cares what some loysing or other has to say?”  
   
“I think perhaps you do, Einnis Eldhug,” Sigrid said, shaking her head slowly as she studied him. “Do you not?”   
   
Einnis did not respond, nor did he look at her. He clenched his jaws and clutched the finely carved walrus-tooth piece in his hand as if it held the answer to the riddle of his life.  
   
Sigrid sighed. “I wish you would open your mind to me, brother. I worry when I see that despite your growing and healthy family, your prosperity and your standing, you seem discontent and far from happy. What good did it do Ketil to keep all his sadness and loneliness inside till the last day he lived? If something is weighing on your mind, please won’t you tell me? Maybe I can help you sort things out. We were so close, back in that difficult time when last there were only the two of us. Now when I look at you, I am reminded of the words of the wise ones of yore;  
 

_No-one knows what another_  
hides deep in his heart,  
In the mind every man is alone;  
To the sensible there is  
no ailment so sore  
As in nothing to know content.” 

   
Einnis shook his head dismissively. “I am content, Sigrid. I have everything a man can hope for; health and a good wife, a fine daughter, wealth and rich farms, clansmen to do me proud. All is well. Do not concern yourself with me.”  
   
He finally decided where to place his pawn, and put it down on the tafl-board decisively. Sigrid looked down at it, and then back up at him, surprised.  
   
“You’ve lost the game, Einnis!”  
   
He looked right past her with an enigmatic little half-smile. “So I have, sister. I surely have.”  
   
With that he rose to bid her good night, and left to find his bed. For one reason or the other he was never alone with her again till the time soon came for him to take his little family and return to their home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dubh Linn / Dublin** – The name of the Irish capital comes from Dubh Linn “The Black Pool”, originally a lake used by the Norse to moor their ships in. Dublin was founded as a township by the Norse in AD 841 and ruled by Norsemen from its founding year till AD 999. (In Saga terms, Dublin town was founded a short time before Muirenn and Eoin were born).
> 
>  **Muirenn’s soul-searching (and information about St. Sunniva for the sake of comparison)** – That marrying a heathen would be a sin and should be avoided was very much the topic of the day for Muirenn (and Eoin); – especially when the heathen was a ruthless invader of their own land. Muirenn’s dilemma echoes that of St. Sunniva, whose story serves to illustrate that this was a realistic issue at the time. Sunniva according to legend was an Irish princess who had to flee from her realm in Ireland ca AD 950 when a heathen viking king, who wanted to marry her, invaded. Trusting in God she set forth with her companions in 3 boats without oars, rudder or sail and eventually stranded at the Norwegian island of Selja. There she and her followers later were buried by a landslide in a cave when they prayed God to protect them from some approaching heathens. In the years to come miracles were reported on the island, and in AD 996 the body of Sunniva was alledgedly found intact. A monastery, Selje Abbey, was built on the site. From shortly after AD 1,000 and onwards Sunniva was much revered as the patron saint of western Norway. 
> 
> The reason that Muirenn cannot directly refer to this story in her Saga soul-searching is that the Irish princess Sunniva, if real, lived ca. 80 years later than Muirenn! Nevertheless the Sunniva legend shows that marrying a Norse invader should be close to anathema to a decent Irish woman. 
> 
> **St. Dorothy** \- a young virgin from Cæsarea who was martyred in the Diocletian persecution (ca. AD 300). She was stretched upon the rack, and offered marriage if she would consent to sacrifice to heathen gods. She refused, and was executed. 
> 
> **St. Lucy** \- Christian martyr from Cyracuse (AD 283 – 304), equally martyred in the Diocletian persecution of Christians. She consecrated her virginity to God and refused to marry a heathen, who subsequently denounced her as a Christian in revenge. Her captors took her eyes out with a fork, before she was executed. 
> 
> **St. Bréanainn (or Saint Brendan) of Clonfert** \- (ca. AD 484 – 577) called "the Navigator" or "the Voyager", is one of the early Irish monastic saints, and one of the most famous. His voyages created one of the most enduring European legends. St Brendan is chiefly renowned for his legendary journey to The Isle of the Blessed as described in the ninth century Voyage of St Brendan the Navigator, which tells of how he set out onto the Atlantic Ocean with sixty pilgrims searching for the Garden of Eden. While the story is often assumed to be a religious allegory, many think that the legends may be based on actual events, and there is speculation that the Isle of the Blessed was actually America. The tale of St. Brendan is meshed with a religious ascetic tradition where Irish monks would travel alone in boats. There are certain indications that there already were Irish monks on Iceland when the first Norse settlers got there in the ninth century.
> 
>  **Tafl (or hnefa-tafl)** – Norse board game resembling chess, played with various pieces and pawns on a board of squares.  
> 
>  **“No-one knows what another hides deep in his heart, etc”** – This poem is stanza no. 93/95 from Havamal.


	24. Chapter 24

Einnis and Arna returned home to their farm and resumed their everyday routine much as before. Their married life flowed evenly along, without any great turmoil, if also with less closeness than before. 

Day by day they both had more than enough to see to; Arna managing the many duties of a mistress whose responsibility it is to ensure that every person on the farm can be properly fed and clothed every day of the year, and Einnis ordering and participating in all the work out-of-doors and in the fields and woods. The two of them took great care to attend important functions in the valley and to observe customs and traditions at their farm. They traveled to blots, weddings and gatherings of other kinds, and made every effort to stay on friendly basis with the masters and mistresses of other important farms in the community. They were well liked, and well respected.  
   
As winter approached, their kinswoman Jorunn Haraldsdottir, Torgeirr’s sister, and her husband Ottar Kvite came north to settle as temporary master and mistress of Einstad. This had been arranged during the young couple’s wedding, and had the added benefit for Torgeirr and Sigrid of having someone look after Sigrid’s part of Ketil’s inheritance. Einnis had agreed that his sister would become owner of a part of Einstad, so that the ancient clan farm would still remain whole and undivided under one master. The young people settling at Einstad lightened the burden for Einnis. It had proved too onerous a task to manage both farms properly, since they were placed so far apart.  
   
Little-Arna grew and thrived. Shortly after her daughter’s first Yule Arna knew herself to be expecting again. 

During his wife’s second pregnancy Einnis increasingly took to turning to the wall as soon as he lay down at night on their bench, telling Arna that he was tired after the long day’s work. The child, another daughter, was born on a warm day in early fall, when the first leaves were turning yellow. Both Einnis and Arna had hoped for a son this time, but still they rejoiced in their fine and healthy newborn daughter, whom Einnis named Freidis after his mother.  
   
To Arna’s distress she proved unable to properly nurse her new little one, having too little milk to satisfy the babe. After many trying and frantic days and nights of increasingly sore weeping from the hungry infant, Arna had to admit defeat. She let one of the thrall women, who was just weaning a strong and healthy boy-child, take over as wet-nurse for Freidis. Arna instead redoubled her efforts to care for little-Arna. Their older daughter was now a big girl, walking about on chubby legs and managing to create havoc when given half an opportunity. She was a happy and cheerful child, and both Einnis and Arna doted on her.  
 

\- x - 

   
In Kaupang life likewise continued, smoothly for the most part but with occasional obstacles in the way. Gunnar and Eoin worked steadily as wood-carvers, and Gunnar received much praise and considerable fame for his carvings on several magnificent new long-ships. Muirenn increasingly managed to negotiate better pay and high-profile assignments for both the two wood-carvers.  
   
In fall Ragnvald went home for the winter to his lord’s manor, and Eoin found that he truly missed his cheerful sword-mate.

He was happy to welcome Ragnvald back to Kaupang when spring made the woods green the following year, and they took up their sword-training sessions where they’d left off. Eoin was always interested in hearing the tales Ragnvald had heard and could retell about far-off places, news from the north, from Ireland or Denmark, and occasionally also about new lands discovered in the far northern seas.  
   
The first Yule after his marriage, Gunnar couldn’t resist returning to the ale bowl, and over a number of days he drank without stopping, going without both food and sleep. 

When a distraught Muirenn finally managed with Eoin’s help to get her husband back home, he was more dead than alive. For a little while they weren’t certain he was going to survive. Muirenn waked over him and took care of him with skill, patience and prayers, and miraculously managed to get him back on his feet. 

Once Gunnar was able to go back to work she gave him such an earful that few men had heard more scathing and furious words. She slept on the bench by herself for weeks after that during cold mid-winter, just when a bedfellow would otherwise have been doubly welcome.  
   
The king was continuing his conquests to the west, and proved that nothing could stop him from becoming overlord of all the kingdoms in the land. Kaupang saw but little of the battles except that many warriors passed through the township, and proud long-ships bound for the wars occasionally berthed at the town wharfs. 

In late summer shortly after Sverri’s second birthday however, the alarm was sounded when a fleet of Dane-ships appeared on the horizon, seemingly making ready for an attack upon Kaupang. Knowing full well that the king and his war-ships were far away, the townspeople and traders gathered some few prized possessions in a hurry and made for the woods beyond town in frantic haste. Some chased pigs and sheep in front of them, others carried children or helped old folks along, and everyone fully expected to be returning to nothing but piles of ashes and the cold bodies of the warriors and guards who were foolhardy enough to stay behind to defend the town and the harbor storehouses against a vastly superior and well-armed force. 

But luck favoured Kaupang. Strong winds slowed the invaders just enough for the ships from the nearest manors to come to the rescue. After a brief skirmish out on the fjord the Dane fleet sailed off in a north-easterly direction, and was not seen again. Kaupang survived intact and life in town soon returned to normal.  
   
Sverri Torgeirrson grew into a fine boy, still like his father in looks but sometimes very quiet of mood. Sigrid once told her husband that Sverri reminded her of Einnis as a boy. 

Sverri’s first word was in Gaelic, but the second one was Norse. As his speech improved with every month he added to his age, he proved able to switch back and forth between the two languages at will. Sleipner continued to be his most cherished possession, though the battered horse by now had only six legs remaining.  
   
Torgeirr gifted Sverri with a wooden sword and a small leather helmet, and the boy wasted no time in chasing his stepfather around the hearth, yelling with delight till he stumbled and fell flat on the floor, howling. He was quickly diverted though when Eoin challenge him to a mock fight in his turn, which Sverri gleefully accepted, brandishing his toy sword above his head.  
   
The boy’s father visited whenever he came down to Kaupang, and frequently brought Sverri with him to his clan house in town, or carried him on his shoulders down to the waterfront. Torgeirr was increasing his trading activity steadily, and declared that his raiding days were over once and for all. He now owned two ships that traded along the coast, and he proved very shrewd in buying and selling local produce and bartering in foreign luxury foods and fabrics at the Kaupang fairs.  
   
Torgeirr Haraldson was becoming a wealthy man in silver, but not in heirs. For although time passed and month followed month, after three full years of marriage there still was no sign that Sigrid Elmarsdottir might be carrying a child.  
   
In the spring before Sverri would be turning three, Torgeirr came to visit as soon as he arrived in Kaupang for the season. He sat down with Muirenn, telling her he wanted to speak about their son’s future. The boy had been outside the house with two other children from the neighborhood all day, playing a game of conquest with lines drawn in the dirt, and was now sleeping like a log, buried in his blanket and sheepskins.  
   
Muirenn turned pale, as if expecting the worst, and in her turn asked that Gunnar and Eoin remain in the house, since both men cared for the boy and might have advice for her.  
   
Torgeirr drank deeply from the ale bowl before speaking. “I suppose that you do not know much about the laws surrounding ættleiding?” he asked Muirenn, and she shook her head slowly, though Gunnar sat up straighter in his seat. “It is a way of securing that a man’s son born to an ambatt or a fridla is welcomed into his clan on equal standing with a son born in legal marriage. Under the laws he will have exactly the same rights and obligations as a son born directly into the clan.”  
   
Torgeirr gestured, almost apologetically. “The ceremony requires as many members of the father’s clan as possible to be present, so it takes a little time to prepare.”  
   
He hesitated, considering his next words. “Now here’s where it all gets complicated. I have hardly heard of a clan refusing to ættleid a healthy and promising boy, but it does impact the inheritance rights of all clan members, as you will understand. I am becoming a wealthy man, and I have a large clan and many relatives who might want their share of my goods when I die. So if I hold an ættleiding ceremony for Sverri, I cannot rule out that some of my kinsmen might try to find some legal fault with it, and reasons to refuse the boy his inheritance. Especially if he is my only son, and stands to inherit all that I have.”  
   
Torgeirr sighed. “Now the laws are complex, but generally they are interpreted to allow for the son of a fridla to be ættleided at any time during his childhood. But as for a man’s thrall son born to an ambatt mother, there is no dispute that the law says the ceremony must take place before the boy turns three. Otherwise it will be too late. And here’s the rub, Muirenn: even if both you and Sverri have been liberated, our son was nevertheless born a thrall. Unless he is ættleided before his next birthday, I have no assurance that my clan will accept him as my legal son and heir after I’m gone. They may well dispute his status at the ting, claiming that he is thrall-born and was ættleided too late, and therefore has no inheritance rights. There’s only one way to avoid such a snag….” 

Torgeirr leaned forward, his eyes seeking Muirenn’s, his voice growing stronger. “Sverri has to be ættleided very soon. And when that is done, I want him to live with me at my farm. He needs to take his place in my clan, and my people must get to know him.”   
   
Muirenn looked at him in silence for a moment, then her eyes swung to Gunnar, the question in them plain to see. 

“Torgeirr is right,” Gunnar said slowly. “I hadn’t thought about this applying to you and the boy, since you were liberated so soon after his birth, but it is true – a thrall-born child must be ættleided before he is three, according to the laws.”  
   
Muirenn drew a deep breath. “Sverri is so small yet, he is not ready to leave his mother and all that he knows to go live among strangers,” she said in a low voice.  
   
“Hardly among strangers,” Torgeirr reminded her gently. “I will be there, and you know I will see to it that he is treated well and cared for properly. Sigrid is very fond of the boy, I’m sure you’ll agree. And there is no reason why you won’t see him whenever we travel down to Kaupang, which will be as frequently as before.”  
   
Muirenn looked down into her lap, where her hands were clasped firmly together. “What if I refuse to let you take him and tell you not to go through with this… ættleiding of yours?” she asked.  
   
“I won’t accept it,” Torgeirr said plainly. “Sverri is my heir and I want him acknowledged as such. He needs to take his place in the clan. I am sorry for causing you grief, Muirenn, and I want us to remain on friendly terms. The boy should not have to lose his mother, even if he lives apart from her. But make no mistake. If there is a conflict, Sverri will be my main concern.”  
   
Muirenn opened her mouth to speak, but found no words and remained silent. 

Torgeirr looked uncomfortable and relented a little in view of her obvious pain. “I have been thinking that there is more that one decrepit woodcarving at my farm that needs replacing,” he said. “If Gunnar - and perhaps Jaran as well – were to come up next month to stay for a time, carving the necessary replacements, you and Sverri could travel with him, Muirenn. Then I’d arrange our boy’s ceremony, and you could live at the farm for a while and see him getting used to his new life.”  
   
Muirenn bent her head in defeat. “I would not cheat my son out of a large inheritance and a respected place here as your heir,” she said. “Were I now to bring him home to my kin in Ireland, he would never be one of them. He would be mocked as a bastard, and hated for being Norse. People are cruel to such as he, I know that well enough, and the children would thoughtlessly follow where their elders led the way. His life would be hard and lonely there.” 

She glanced in Eoin’s direction for a moment before continuing. “Yes, Torgeirr Haraldson, I had made my mind up to let you take your son when the time came. It’s just that I thought he would be older when it happened, and this breaks my heart. He is so small and defenseless yet…. ”  
   
Torgeirr bit his lip. “I am sorry, Muirenn. I promise I will be there to defend him myself.” 

He paused for a moment, clearly debating whether to say more, and then went on. “Please do not blame me overmuch. The fates have a strong hand in this, for if they’d given me sons with Sigrid, I would have let Sverri stay with you till he was older, ættleiding or no. And I have kept hope alive, but by now we have tried everything. We even had a famed volva called to the farm to heal Sigrid of her infertility. But to our grief nothing has changed. Now we have to face reality.”  
   
None of their little party found much more to say. 

After having agreed on the time for the ceremony, and after silently having studied his son, completely relaxed and safe in his sleep, Torgeirr took his leave. He held Muirenn’s hands in his for a moment before ducking out the door. “You are a strong and courageous woman, Muirenn. Our son should rightly be proud of you and his Irish inheritance, and so I will always remind him.”  
 

\- x - 

   
The messenger who arrived to greet Einnis and Arna just as the spring sowing was finished very earnestly stressed the importance of Torgeirr’s request.  
   
“He says it is of the utmost importance that as many as possible of his clan members be there, Einnis Elmarson, so he asks that you come to the ceremony to receive his son into the clan if you have any chance of making it,” the man said, the urgency of his words echoing Torgeirr’s own.  
   
Einnis looked to Arna who was sitting at his side, working embroidery on a tunic she was sewing for him, and nodded. “We will be there. It has been too long since I saw my sister and brother-in-law in any case, and I well recall the ancient warning of the wise ones;  
 

_If you have a friend you can fully trust,_  
fare often to find him at home!   
Brambles and grasses too quickly grow high  
on the rarely trodden track.” 

   
He turned back to the messenger to ask him for further details, but it turned out he knew very little except the date of the ceremony and the name of the boy; Sverri. Most of all the man was eager to ride on, for he was carrying the same message to Torgeirr’s sister and brother-in-law up at Einstad. The messenger therefore left the farm after a short rest and a meal, and there were no more tidings to be had from the south.

\- x - 

Shortly after this Einnis and Arna set out from their farm to travel to the ættleiding. They rode at ease through pleasantly green landscapes and warm spring weather, listening to bird calls trilling from every side along the tracks, and the cuckoo’s distinct greeting from the forested hills.

Little-Arna was coming with them, proudly riding in front of her mother on a sure and steady horse, and wildly excited at this big adventure. Baby Freidis had however been left at home with her wet-nurse foster-mother, where she would be more comfortable by far.  
   
Torgeirr and Sigrid came out to greet them as the little family and their companions rode into their yard one day shortly after noon. There was only one day to go till the ceremony, and there was a steady stream of people and horses arriving. Such a gathering of clansmen had not been seen at the farm since the funeral feast for Torgeirr’s father.  
   
“Welcome!” Torgeirr greeted them loudly, seeming more on edge than Einnis had ever seen him. “It’s good to see you, brother-in-law. But strangely enough the guest of honor hasn’t arrived yet, and he is the one I want to see most of all!”  
   
“Your Sverri isn’t here?” Arna asked in surprise, handing little-Arna down to Sigrid who smiled kindly at the grinning and squirming little girl.  
   
“No, he is not here yet – they were supposed to have been here yesterday, all of them, his mother and her husband the woodcarver too. That is, I think both the wood-carvers are coming, I’ve hired them on for some replacement work around the farm,” Torgeirr said absentmindedly. ”Well, hopefully they’ve just been delayed a little. I’m sure they will be arriving later today.”  
   
He rambled on distractedly for another few moments, before hurriedly excusing himself to rush over to greet Olaf Haka and his retinue, who were just then arriving at the gate.  
   
“Two wood-carvers? He really does mean to renew your farm and make it too impressive for words,” Arna said to Sigrid and smiled. 

Einnis’s sister had put little-Arna down on the ground, and was kneeling down to keep the child from toddling off on her own among the many horses and men. 

“Yes indeed,” Sigrid replied slowly, raising her head and seeking out Einnis’s still form on his horse. “Truly, nothing is good enough where Torgeirr’s son is concerned, as you can imagine….” With that she gracefully rose and ushered Arna and her daughter and women into the hall, leaving Einnis to fend for himself till such a time as Torgeirr should return, though not before sending her brother a last piercing glance.  
   
Einnis handed his horse to a waiting thrall, and saw to it that their possessions were carried to the guest-hall where he and Arna would be staying. With so many distinguished clan members arriving, the few available boxed-in benches would be in demand, and it came as no surprise that he would be sleeping with Arna and their daughter in an open bench space near the hearth. 

He sat down there for a moment, fiddling aimlessly with the fine gilded brooch on his cloak, and then started gripping and releasing his sword hilt nervously, over and again, lost in thought. Eventually he rose to go join his family and the gathered clan in the main hall, though he hardly managed to set one foot in front of the other, the way his eyes incessantly kept scanning the crowd in the yard.  
   
Arna had in the meantime finished greeting everyone and had moved herself outside. The hall was already filled to the bursting point with stately clan matrons and young girls trailing their mothers, and in the warm spring sunlight Arna had instead found herself a seat on the bench running along the front wall of the hall. There she had been joined by a number of other women, all of them clad in fine dresses and with strings of beads and jewelry, keys, scissors and needles dangling from their oval brooches. 

Arna was clearly enjoying herself talking to the other farm mistresses, but she did not sit idle even so - she had once more started working on Einnis’s tunic. The fine embroidery work around the neck opening and along the sleeves was so taxing on the eyes that she needed the clear light of day to be able to finish it properly.  
   
“I wondered where you’d gotten to!” she told Einnis with a smile. “They’re serving good ale inside, it’s been set out at the table in front of the high seat. Go get yourself something to drink, husband. We had a thirsty ride.”  
   
Einnis nodded and passed her by, walking into the dim hall and looking about himself as if surprised to see so many people. He went straight up to get himself a goodly bowl of ale, and then wandered aimlessly about for a spell before sitting down on a bench in the corner. 

After a while of quietly drinking his ale he got up and wandered restlessly about once more, stalking the hall like a lynx in a cage. Several times he walked to the door and looked out into the courtyard, scanning the crowd there before returning to refill his ale bowl and sit back down for a spell. 

In this manner his afternoon passed, occasionally dotted with brief exchanges of greetings and talk with men who knew him from Torgeirr’s and Jorunn’s weddings and who now stopped by to renew acquaintances. They all soon moved on, however, for though Einnis was polite he was also distant, and they found it difficult to hold his attention for long.  
   
The evening meal was a boisterous and crowded affair, and afterwards people continued drinking and talking for a while as evening turned towards night. Many however left off early to seek their beds, knowing full well that the real feast was set for the next day. 

Long after Arna had said her good-nights, her husband remained sitting a little way off from Torgeirr, who was surrounded by his uncle, brother and cousins. Einnis did not join in the men’s talk, and by now looked quite exhausted, his head drooping tiredly over the half-empty ale bowl.  
   
A servant came into the hall and spoke to Torgeirr in low tones, and Torgeirr in his turn shot up from his seat and hurried to the door. Einnis looked after him blearily, then rose to follow in his brother-in-law’s wake. He stopped right outside the door to study the courtyard, which now was dark with night shadows, though there were blazing torches on either side of the main hall’s wall.  
   
There was a small commotion in the yard as Torgeirr hurried over to greet a woman who was in the process of lifting the form of a sleeping child down from her horse. Einnis’s glance slid right past them and onwards, searching the night. He found his goal.  
   
Eoin was standing in the background, holding a horse. Across the crowded courtyard the sight of him hit Einnis like a bolt of lightning straight from Thor’s own hammer. 

Eoin’s dark hair was long now, but his face was not much changed. In the flickering light from the torches along the far wall he looked well, healthy, and strong, and he was well-clad; a sword hilt glinted on his hip and a brooch on his right shoulder. Einnis regarded him much as a drowning man desperately watches a hand that unlooked-for reaches out to save him from the overpowering might of the waves.  
   
As if sensing Einnis’s stare on him, Eoin looked towards the hall searchingly. His eyes met Einnis’s. He froze for a moment, perfectly still like one of his own wooden statues. Then he smiled widely with sudden joy. The radiant and beautiful smile illuminated his entire face and made his eyes blaze, and it worked on Einnis just like a beacon in the night.  
   
Never for a moment letting go of Eoin’s gaze, Einnis walked down the steps to the yard and through the shadows and lights of its expanse, weaving in and out among people and horses on pure instinct, walking right past Torgeirr, who was now returning to the hall with Sverri in his arms. 

Einnis moved on right up to Eoin, placed his hands firmly on the other’s shoulders, and without hesitation quickly pushed him backwards step by step into the narrow dark passage between the stables and a storage house, where the light from the torches did not reach. The two of them entered the deep shadows beyond the courtyard and disappeared from view.  
   
Doing a half-turn in the darkness, Einnis forcefully shoved Eoin back against the wall, held on, whispered his name once and dove for his lips, frantic with desperation and desire, panting with urgency. Their mouths met and mashed together wildly. Einnis’s tongue demanded entry and pushed against Eoin’s – fierce, impatient, needy. Eoin met him with equal frenzy, so hard they tasted blood. Both had ceased to breathe, though their hearts were beating double time. Their world had diminished to nothing more than this place, this time, this man, right here, now.  
   
“Eoin,” Einnis breathed at last, gasping for air, his hands sliding up to frame the other man’s face and his thumbs gently stroking the raven-wing eyebrows even as Eoin’s strong arms embraced him and held on. “Eoin,” Einnis whispered and leaned forward, nudging him with his forehead. Then once more he covered Eoin’s mouth with his own, tenderly now, opening up to the other, making him open in turn. Their bodies molded together chest to toes, pushing against each other, reveling in the solid reality of flesh and bones and singing blood and shuddering breaths.  
   
“It’s you, it’s you, you’re here, at last”…  
   
Eventually Einnis tore himself free, seeing nothing but the slight shimmer in Eoin’s eyes, his hands still caressing Eoin’s face in the darkness. Once more he walked Eoin backwards till they rounded the corner of the stable, moving on to where the courtyard lights would never reach and the solid wall cast a heavy shadow across the empty field beyond, already shrouded in the spring night’s darkness.  
   
“Eoin,” Einnis whispered again, pushing the man in his arms up against the wall and sinking down in front of him as if kneeling in supplication. Einnis reached to embrace Eoin’s strong thighs, pulling him close. He leaned forward, resting his head against Eoin’s abdomen, letting go of worry and tension like a lonely and weary traveler who has reached his beloved home after many dangers and travails, and can lie down in comfort and safety at last. “Oh, Eoin, the gods know I have longed for this….”  
 

\- x - 

   
Arna had slept lightly for a little while, but all the coming and going in the crowded guest-hall woke her up, only to realize that little-Arna next to her was whimpering about her tummy hurting. Hoping that nothing more than over-excitement and unaccustomed meal times were at work, Arna hurriedly rose to don her kirtle dress and throw a loose coif over her hair, before taking her daughter outside and around the guest hall to the women’s trenches.  
   
Once little-Arna’s business was done, the child abruptly fell asleep, her body going heavy in Arna’s arms and the curly head lolling on her mother’s comforting shoulder.

Arna walked slowly back towards the front of the hall and its door, careful to not wake her daughter. She breathed the night air deeply, preparing herself for the stuffiness that awaited the two of them past the door. There were still other people up and about on the farm. She met a few women out on the same errand as herself, and then by mere chance her glance was caught by hurried movement at the verge of the yard, beyond the groups of people and horses still standing about. In surprise she recognized her husband, speeding towards another man, grabbing hold of him and walking him backwards around the corner. Worried that Einnis was getting himself into some nonsensical drunken fight she walked around the yard’s perimeter, staying close to the house walls till she reached the opening into darkness where her husband had disappeared. Tip-toeing along the wall, little-Arna’s sleeping weight still heavy in her arms, she peeked around the corner into the narrow and shadowy passage.  
   
It took some time for her eyes to adjust sufficiently for her to see anything at all in the night’s darkness, but when they did she froze, like one of the fairy people of the mountains who turn to stone when caught unaware by morning sunlight. 

She stood completely unable to move, but when the one gasping, frantic shadow undulating against the wall split and became two, and those two moved on around the next corner, she followed once more. Unable to stop herself, as if ensorcelled, she was pulled forward without any will of her own in the matter. Again she peeked around the dark corner, and once more her eyes needed time to adjust. But even so she watched the two shapes, mere dark forms in the night but far too solid to be shadows, heard the whispered names, saw one kneeling in front of the other, saw all that followed next.  
   
With a face stiffened in a silent scream, and with staggering steps as if mortally wounded by a thrust to the heart, Arna Mjodsdottir returned to the dark hall and her bench. She laid herself down, clutching her daughter in her cold arms and weeping noiselessly, the silent and secret tears rolling down her cheeks to disappear in her sleeping little girl’s hair.  
 

\- x - 

   
   
Einnis leaned back with a contented sigh, and after a beat started fumbling with the laces at Eoin’s waist.  
   
“Einnis,” Eoin breathed, reaching down to touch the shadowed face below him, feeling his way across Einnis’s expression of incredulous wonder and growing delight. “Einnis,” he murmured once more, repeating the name as if casting a spell over the both of them.  
   
Though his hands were trembling slightly, Einnis managed the task he had set himself, and pulled Eoin’s breeches down and out of the way.

Casting a glance upwards between the fingers caressing his face, he felt rather than saw the faint shimmer of Eoin’s eyes. He pushed Eoin’s tunic up, baring more of him to the air and to his own touch. Einnis drew a deep steadying breath and let his hands move to explore the soft skin of Eoin’s hips and belly, the firm expanses of his chest. His palms and long fingers felt their way with slow strokes, relearning the texture of Eoin’s skin, reacquainting themselves with the tone of muscle and the bones underneath, reconnecting with the softness and the hardness and the hard pounding heartbeat making up the man in front of him.  
   
Unlocking memories and desires with his every caress, Einnis’s whole body shook as all his long suppressed emotions rose to the surface. The fiery embers had never died, their glow hidden and protected far beneath Einnis’s skin, safeguarded deep in the secret places of his heart. His every touch along Eoin’s body now fed the fire and fanned the flames to send them roaring forth and breaking through with ravenous intensity. Words of endearment from an ancient lay appeared in Einnis’s mind and left his lips, barely audible, almost like a sensual little prayer. “My dearest dear…”  
   
Einnis bent forward, his nose bumping against Eoin’s joyfully stiffening cock, and burrowed into the juncture between thigh and groin, drawing the sharp and distinct smell there deep into his lungs. He moved his head slightly from side to side, his whole face buried in Eoin’s most secret place, rubbing cheek and chin against the wrinkly loose skin of the balls, breathing them in, reveling in the heady scent, overpowering, pungent, irresistible and long-remembered.  
   
Eoin flung his arms wide, grabbing for the timber wall and hanging on, barely managing to stay on his feet. He widened his stance and looked up blindly to the dark skies, yielding himself body and soul to Einnis’s passionate ministrations, patiently letting the other take all the time that he needed.  
   
Einnis opened his mouth, his tongue sneaking out to join in this feast of the senses. He nuzzled and nipped, tasted and explored, immersing himself completely, but at long last had to pull back to breathe. Gulping air rapturously he soon plunged forward once more, mouth wide open and wet lips avid, taking Eoin in, hungrily sinking down to accept as much as he could manage, sucking hard. His hands remained on Eoin’s hips, holding the other in place. Einnis moved slowly back up again, never letting go, lips firm and demanding. His tongue swirled; suckling, vibrating, rubbing gently at first but increasing the pressure. 

He growled with wild, exuberant joy.  
   
The animalistic sound of satisfaction rising from Einnis’s throat vibrated along Eoin’s cock and set the Irishman’s whole being to thrumming, his body crackling with the heat of desire. He let go his grip on the wall, and placed his hands gently on Einnis’s head instead, as if administering a blessing.  
   
Eoin remained standing like that against the dark solid wall under the first pale summer stars, his head tilted back and his face serene with profound delight, his fingers twining through Einnis’s golden curls and following the lead of the Norseman’s every movement on him. He gently stroked the perfect shell forms of Einnis’s ears, fingertips sliding in behind each one to touch and caress the sensitive skin there, feeling his way down to Einnis’s nape, his thumbs drawing slow circles as his hands moved.  
   
By now Eoin’s pelvis was thrusting rhythmically, completely of its own volition. The demanding yet generous lips and tongue on him brought pleasure beyond all his hopes or dreams. He gasped out a few breathless words in his native tongue as he neared his completion, closing his eyes as intense release overtook him and he flooded Einnis’s eager mouth to overflowing.  
   
“Thank God,” Eoin whispered into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Kvite** – means “the white”. Maybe Ottar was excessively blond! 
> 
> **Danes** – The Vikings were by no means a united group. Danish kings frequently raided the southern parts of Norway and laid claim to kingship there (and vice versa.) At times during the Viking era Danish or Norwegian kings also actually were acknowledged as overlords in both countries, but these periods never lasted long.
> 
>  **Ættleiding** – literally “leading (someone) into the clan”, a legal means whereby a boy (yes, only boys) from an extramarital relationship could be accepted as his father’s legal heir and a full clan member in line with children born in lawful marriage. The legalities as always among the Norse were complex, and among other matters do clearly seem to distinguish between thrall-born children and others. The law was also specific as to the details of the required ceremony, but I won’t include those details here as we will get to see Sverri’s ættleiding in the next chapter! The Norse sagas are filled with inheritance disputes which sometimes also lead to feuding, and though I will not give examples here, Torgeirr’s worry that clan members might try to overthrow Sverri’s rights is by no means taken out of thin air! 
> 
> **Tings** – regular gatherings of free men in a district, where laws were made or read, clan legalities and agreements announced, and disputes both declared, judged and (sometimes) settled. The Tings were very important social “net-working” events in the Norse communities. 
> 
> **Volva** – Woman who practiced shamanistic / prophetic rituals (called seid) that teetered between religion and magic. A volva was met with awe, fear and deep respect. She was only called for in the utmost need, for instance when crops failed. 
> 
> **Fridla** – free woman who is someone’s mistress
> 
>  **Ambatt** – thrall woman who is someone’s mistress
> 
>  **“If you have a friend you can fully trust, etc”** – Stanza no. 119 of Havamal.
> 
>  **“My Dearest Dear”** – this line comes from the Norse poem Skirnismal, stanza 18, as translated by W H Auden. The poem deals with the fertility god Frey falling in love with and pining for the lovely Gerd, and the subsequent talk between Skirne (Frey’s servant) and the proud and independent Gerd. Skirne makes offers and then dire threats to make Gerd give herself to Frey. At first she refuses to call Frey her “dearest dear”, but in the end, frightened by Skirne’s threats of magical punishment, acquiesces to meet Frey and to make love to him. The poem is seen as a metaphor for the powers that awaken the reluctant winter fields to new and fertile life in spring. It is believed that the poem’s story in the depths of time may have been reenacted by a priest and priestess standing in for the two gods in fertility rituals. In Viking era archaeological digs, tiny gold sheets with the image of a man and a woman facing each other are fairly common finds. These are believed to represent Frey and Gerd and to have had cultish importance. My point in including this long explanation is that even the most emotionally repressed Viking did have access to and would regularly be enjoying passionately worded and sexually charged poetry like _Skirnismal_ , and hence that Einnis would know such bold endearments even if he never otherwise used them.


	25. Chapter 25

Eoin woke in the early morning, listening to happily trilling bird calls and the whisper of breeze through new leaves, and sensing the solid warm form pressed close to his side and warming him in the dewy chill of dawn.  
   
The previous night Einnis eventually tore himself away and walked off for a moment, returning with a couple of saddle blankets from the stable. Then they took off together into the night, happy as raiders with arms full of riches, barely able to keep going since they were nearly overwhelmed with the longing to stop, touch and kiss every step of the way.  
   
They slipped stealthily through Torgeirr’s sheep fields to the copses of wood beyond, scaring up a flock of ewes and their lambs as they passed in the night. The two of them settled at last on a patch of grass in the farm outfields. All through the night they spoke but little, letting their bodies express what mere words would never fully be able to convey.  
   
In the middle of a clump of birch trees, oaks and beeches, hidden from view under the leaf-rich branches, they finally fell asleep on the rough blankets smelling of horse, hay and manure. With morning approaching they were light of heart but physically drained, having enjoyed each other twice more before contented dreams stole them away.  
   
Even in sleep they had steadfastly remained in each other’s arms. Einnis was lost to the world, lying crushed against the body next to him, breathing evenly and deeply, one sleep-heavy arm resting on Eoin’s chest and one strong leg hooked around his thigh. Einnis’s relaxed and unguarded face was so close to Eoin’s that they were breathing the same air. Eoin lifted his free hand and touched Einnis’s cheek with a light finger, then reached out to stroke his broad back. The affectionate hand wandered across the shoulders, moved from neck to buttocks and back up, the slow caress repeating itself over and again as Eoin rejoiced in the solid reality of warm, supple skin.  
   
Abruptly Einnis opened his eyes. The field beyond the copse was flooding now with morning sun, and the chorus of bird calls intensified and washed over the two of them like a beautiful hymn of praise, their cathedral made of fresh foliage; tall spires of vibrant green adorned with golden sunlight reflected in bright jewels of dew.  
   
“There you are,” Einnis whispered, leaning in to nuzzle Eoin’s cheek, kissing his slightly parted lips with slow sensuous nips. “You’re really here…”  
   
Eoin smiled, stretching his body languidly and sitting up on the blanket, making Einnis roll to the side.  
   
“I’m really here,” he confirmed. “I’m here with you where I most longed to be. It was a long journey from Kaupang, and I ached to go faster, had a hard time not just kicking my horse into a gallop and leaving the others in the dust. Muirenn’s sickness kept slowing us down.”  
   
Einnis looked at him, distracted despite himself. “Muirenn? That’s Sverri Torgeirrson’s mother, the one I thought you’d surely marry? Is she ill?”  
   
Eoin rolled his eyes at him. “Marry? You think I need to repeat all your mistakes?”  
   
Einnis sat up in his turn, shrugging, not letting himself be riled. “No mistake. It was necessary. Arna is a good wife to me and I’ve got two fine little daughters now to show for myself and the clan.”  
   
“So you do. Well, then I think you’ll probably be familiar with Muirenn’s kind of sickness.”  
   
Einnis arched an eyebrow at him, but didn’t follow up on this. Torgeirr’s Irish ambatt had receded to being no more than a vague presence in his conscious mind now that she had no obvious role to play in Eoin’s life. Einnis instead got up on his feet and looked out between the tree boles and across the fields to the farm. The lambs’ bleating and the deeper, rougher responses from the nurturing ewes rose loudly over the field as the flock of sheep started their new day with a morning reunion and mother’s milk.  
   
“It is morning already. Everyone will be up and about soon. I have to go,” Einnis said, matter-of-factly.  
   
He turned back and kneeled down, leaning in for another kiss, his whole face melting with bliss as his eyelids sank shut. ”Come here…..” It was slow, sweet and deep, lips and tongues joining in sensual soul-deep delight, a soft sigh of contentment shared between them.  
   
Then Einnis was up, hurrying about in the grass, locating his various pieces of clothing that lay strewn about as if scattered by a whirlwind, all of them wet with dew. He pulled them on anyway, looking about himself in confusion. “Now, where did I put my sword?”  
   
Stretched out once more on the ground, Eoin had lifted himself up on his elbows and was watching Einnis’s efforts. He himself remained bare as the day he was born, making no move to alter that state of affairs. At Einnis’s question, Eoin grinned mischievously and gave his own sated cock a suggestive tug. “All I know is where you put your sword last night, warrior.”  
   
Einnis shook his head at him and looked behind one tree and then the other, muttering something inaudible. “For that matter,” Eoin voice followed him, the chuckle in it plain to hear, “I also vividly recall where I put mine, and surely no better sheath can be found in the whole wide world!”  
   
Einnis peeked back at him from behind an elm bole, his ears going bright pink, shame and irritation fighting a losing battle with lust and laughter in his face. “Who would have guessed you’d grow so cocky, Irishman?” He shook his head, admonishingly. “Now would you hush up! What if someone heard you - or saw you! We’d be done for, and you know it.”  
   
Eoin lay back down, not deigning to respond, looking up to the sun-dappled leaves and the blue sky, smiling, stretching his arms above his head, spreading his legs and curling his toes, a spread-eagled image of joyful contentment, like a purring cat with milk in its whiskers, basking in a patch of sunlight.  
   
“When will we be together again?” he asked of the skies above.  
   
Einnis stepped back out into the grass, buckling on his sword-belt as well as his everyday guarded expression.  
   
“Not while the clan gathering lasts, that’s for sure. We cannot be seen talking together. It’s too dangerous. My sister would notice, and I worry that she sees too much. Sigrid is wise, and has proven before that she sometimes looks into my heart.” He shook his head. “And afterwards, when the gathering is at an end, I’ll am to ride back home with my family, and you cannot come north with us.…”  
   
Eoin rolled over on his stomach, bracing himself on his elbows, his brows drawing together in a frown. “Einnis! After this night you cannot merely leave again without another word or a backward glance! Come, now. Let’s take some time for ourselves once the ættleiding is over. I plan to be riding back towards Kaupang very soon. I’ll leave Gunnar Gavlpryd to do all Torgeirr’s woodcarving alone, so that Muirenn gets to stay here longer with her son. No-one will be the wiser if I take my own sweet time getting back to town.” He stared at Einnis biddingly, boldly meeting his eyes. “Look at me. You will find a way.” It was a statement, not a question.  
   
Einnis grumbled, but he didn’t refuse or deny Eoin’s words.  
   
Eoin smiled, a bright flash of joy. “We’ll ride off somewhere, take some clothes and food, build a lean-to in the depth of the woods, be all alone for a while just like we once were. And then we can talk about what will be.”  
   
Einnis made as if to leave, but he couldn’t stop himself from walking back over to Eoin one more time, kneeling down and looking into the sky-blue, sparkling eyes. He reached out to touch a finger gently to Eoin’s eyebrow, his eyes following the slow movement. “Raven-wing,” he muttered, and leaned forward to place a final kiss on Eoin’s temptingly upturned lips. Einnis didn’t immediately pull back, his lips now instead lingering close to Eoin’s ear as if about to impart a secret.  
 

_“Long is one night, and longer are two,_  
Endless the thought of three.  
Often to me has a month seemed less  
Than now half a night full of longing.” 

   
With those murmured words Einnis quickly rose, turned, and left, ducking through the leafy branches and stepping out into the green field beyond, walking briskly back to the farm and disappearing from Eoin’s view.  
 

\- x - 

   
The first people were already up and about in the farm’s courtyard. Thralls were bringing pails of milk from the cowshed, carrying wood into the large hall and the kitchen-house, and preparing the cooking pits. None of Torgeirr’s family or guests would be moving about this early, though, since all of them were sleeping late in anticipation of the big event and the long night to come. And though Sigrid surely was up to direct the preparations of the feast, she was nowhere to be seen.  
   
Einnis quickly ducked through the door to the guest-hall. He stopped right inside, drawing a breath and reaching for the dipper hanging over the large bucket of strained sour milk left there for the guests’ convenience. Once he had quenched his thirst with several dipper-fulls of the tart drink he quietly walked through the hall’s dim and crowded interior to the bench he was supposed to have been sharing with his wife and daughter. Arna was lying stiffly on her side, facing the wall. Little-Arna was sleeping next to her mother, facing the hearth, her sweet little face looking innocent and serene. Einnis looked down on them, seeming uncertain about what to do next.  
   
All of a sudden little-Arna opened her eyes and saw him. “Daddy!” she squealed in excitement, causing sleepers nearby to grunt at the piercing sound. Einnis quickly sat down to take her into his arms. “Hush, little one. Let your mother sleep. Why are you awake this early?”  
   
“Can’t sleep anymore. It smells strange here,” the girl said, wrinkling her button nose at the heavy air in the hall. Very many people in such a closed space meant poor air and some considerable stench; the hall was filled to overflowing. There were even people sleeping on the floor.  
   
Einnis hugged her and was about to answer, when Arna suddenly turned around and sat up, her face carefully blank and her eyes lowered. “Where have you been, Einnis?”  
   
“Sat up drinking and talking with some men in the hall. It got late,” Einnis muttered, never lifting his eyes from Little-Arna and her unruly shock of hair.  
   
“I haven’t had much sleep either,” Arna said, a hint of frost in her voice. She paused for a moment before she went on, impersonal calm descending. “Our daughter has not been well – we’ve been back and forth to the trenches several times tonight.”  
   
Einnis tensed and looked more closely at his little girl. “Are you ill, little one?” he asked, worriedly.  
   
Little-Arna placed a hand on her belly and grimaced. “My tummy hurt!” she declared.  
   
Arna patted her back. “You’re better now, are you not, honey-girl?” She swung her feet out over the side of the bench and rose to her feet, reaching for her kirtle, still not seeking eye contact with her husband.  
   
“I think I might as well get up, go over to the kitchen-house and see if there’s anything I can do to help Sigrid,” she said. “If you’re planning to rest here for a spell, little-Arna can stay with you. Otherwise I can take her over to the weaving house. There will soon enough be other children there to play with.”  
   
Einnis told her to go, he would manage the child.  
   
The rest of the morning Arna sat as before on the bench with the tunic she was working on ready to hand. But this time her quick fingers were idle, and the embroidery lay forgotten in her lap. She didn’t go into the hall for the morning meal, and though she appeared at the noon meal she merely pecked at her food. And if her husband had seemed taciturn the day before, she easily outperformed him in similar demeanor on this day, while the rest of the assembled guests eagerly talked among themselves and waited for the ættleiding to begin.

\- x - 

The feast began in the early afternoon, when all the guests gathered in the main hall, thronging it to the very rafters. The floor next to the hearth was however left free, and in the middle of the cleared space stood the most important object of the whole ceremonial: The ættleiding shoe.  
   
It had been made especially for the occasion, in accordance with the requirements set forth in the laws. A big, strong three-year old bull had been slaughtered, the hide on its right front leg above the hock carefully removed, then tanned and prepared separately. A single unusually large but simple shoe, its form made to fit a human right foot, had been sewn from the leather.  
   
Now Torgeirr walked up to stand next to the shoe. Clad in his best finery, a blue tunic bordered with red, and with a magnificent golden brooch glinting on his shoulder, he lifted his arms and gestured for everyone to be silent. Thereafter he looked over to where Sverri and Muirenn were waiting, and signaled for them to approach.  
   
Muirenn took her son by the hand and stepped forward slowly and with considerable composure, her head held high and her pale face carefully neutral. She walked among those who had once seen her as a lowly foreign ambatt, mere property to be bought and sold, distraught and humbled, with no rights and no friends. Then she had been a frightened and ignorant girl, now she was a mature and dignified woman. A fine white wife’s coif with green borders covered her head, though her long red braid hung visible over one shoulder. She wore a moss-green apron dress of rich foreign cloth over a crisp linen under-dress, its long train trailing her as she walked forward. Several strings of amber beads glinted between the domed shoulder brooches, but her most striking piece of jewelry was a simple but beautiful golden cross, glittering brightly on her chest. The cloth for the dress Muirenn had bought with her own silver, the one she earned from negotiating Gunnar and Eoin’s work. But the cross had been Gunnar’s personal gift of gratitude to her, bought at the market in Kaupang and freely given for saving his life.  
   
Sverri was dressed in clothes much like his father’s. He held on hard to his mother’s hand, trying to look big and brave as he walked towards his father and the strange shoe in the middle of the floor. The two of them stopped right in front of Torgeirr, who reached out to take Sverri’s other hand in his.  
   
For a moment the boy stood connected to both his parents, then Muirenn squeezed the boy’s hand and let it go. She stepped back, one step and then another and another, backing off slowly and solemnly so that Torgeirr and Sverri were left alone in the middle of the floor, the boy’s face a childish but unmistakable copy of his father’s. Torgeirr squared his shoulders and looked out over the gathered throng of his kinsmen and clansmen. The ættleiding had begun.  
   
Torgeirr took off his own shoe, and placed his right foot in the ceremonial shoe on the floor for a moment. Thereafter he bent down to help Sverri, and placed the boy’s small foot in the large bull-hide shoe, holding him still in this position so that every person in the room could get a good look.  
   
Torgeirr spoke up with a strong and carrying voice. “This is Sverri Torgeirrson. I lead this boy now to all wealth that I have, to rank and to riches, to honor and high seat, to goods and to gifts, and to full rights in our clan. May the gods bear witness hereto, and all men and all women who are here assembled. So let it be done.”    
   
He paused for a moment, holding Sverri’s hand. Sverri looked frightened, his little face pale and scrunched up to keep tears from flowing, but he bravely kept himself still, comforted just enough by his father’s strong calm hold on him.  
   
Then Torgeirr went down on one knee and embraced his son, at the same time beckoning for Sigrid. She walked across the floor to them, and bent down to embrace the boy in her turn. This was a ceremonial requirement, but there was no mistaking the warmth in her eyes as she regarded the boy. Husband and wife now walked to the side of the floor, Sverri between them, leaving the bull-hide shoe standing alone once more. Next there was much movement in the throng of witnesses, as the men of the clan came forward one by one, formally placing their feet in the ættleiding shoe for a moment. Torgeirr’s young brother was first in line, next came Olaf Haka and his sons, then one after the other of the men connected to Torgeirr and Sverri by blood. Following them, the clan members connected by marriage came forth, Einnis and Ottar Kvite among them. Ottar had traveled alone to the ættleiding, bringing Torgeirr greetings and good news from his sister Jorunn: She had just been delivered of a son, and was not yet up and about when Ottar left Einstad.  
   
Eoin stood at the very back of the throng of spectators, having no rights and no claim on anyone in this clan. He watched the ceremony intently in the flickering light from the hearth and the torches.  
   
Arna was sitting with the other visiting clan mistresses at the women’s high table, her eyes methodically searching the crowd till they eventually found Eoin. She studied his face even as he had his eyes fixed on Muirenn, and for a moment her features contorted into a bitter grimace of disgust. Then she managed to compose herself, drawing on her pride and the self-control she had been taught to master from her very first year, and once more she presented an unreadable mask to the hall.  
   
Muirenn had been watching all the ættleiding proceedings from the side of the hall, Gunnar at her side. As the ceremony concluded her face was inscrutable, almost frozen. But Sverri looked up at his father and smiled.  
   
As every grown man of the extended clan had now stepped into the shoe, it was taken aside to be preserved as an heirloom of the clan. The feast could begin in earnest. Sigrid clapped her hands to have the thralls and servants start serving food and drink. Steaming meat was carried in on big trays, directly from the cooking pits, and all sorts of tasty and tempting dishes besides. Large quantities of the best ale had been brewed in accordance with the laws’ ættleiding requirements, and it had been poured into large, finely carved and decorated bowls. On the table in front of the high seat there were beakers with mead and even with wine. Torgeirr had not spared any expense on this important occasion.  
   
The guests fell to with ravenous joy, and the cheer rose even higher when Bjarni Berseson, who had once been the old king’s personal bard, stepped up to the high table in order to say forth his best kvads as well as a few well-known and much-loved poems of the gods. There was silence in the hall as he spoke the verses in richly nuanced and ringing tones, long honed to hold listeners enraptured, painting images and scenes with his mere voice. It was still early in the evening, and people were for the most part sober and able to appreciate the finer stylistic points as well as the tale each kvad told. Cheers and toasts rang out after every one.  
   
Eventually Torgeirr rose to thank the bard for his performance with words of high praise. It was evident for all that Torgeirr was not stinting as far as his son’s ættleiding was concerned. Bards of Bjarni’s quality and fame expected gold in payment, and now Torgeirr took a ring off his finger and gave it in bard’s pay, earning more cheers and toasts for his generosity to the bard - and to all the assembled guests.   
   
The celebrations continued through the evening and into the night.

At one point Bjarni sat down at the women’s high table to thank the mistress of the farm for the feast, congratulate her on her fine foster-son, and to praise the food, as the custom was. “A wonderful feast, and such good cheer! We may all be grateful that thanks to you, mistress Sigrid, this proves to be the very opposite of the feast that the gods gave in Loki’s Quarrel – yes, I imagine you know that lay?” 

Sigrid was weary but was still keeping a sharp eye on proceedings. She thanked the bard for his fair words and spoke with him for a little while, then excused herself to go order more ale brought to the tables, though of a poorer quality this late in the evening. 

When Sigrid left, Bjarni rose too, clearly intending to return to the high table where Torgeirr sat with his brother, uncle and cousins, but Arna leaned forward and placed a light hand on the bard’s arm. “I heard you mentioning Loki’s Quarrel in speaking to mistress Sigrid, did I not? I have been trying to remember Skadi’s words to Loki, but they seem to have slipped my mind. Could you remind me of them, good bard?”  
   
Bjarni looked at her, his quick glance taking in and assessing her rich attire and the many jewels and keys dangling from her brooches. He nodded graciously. “It will be my pleasure, mistress. Though let us hope Skadi’s words are not taking root in anyone’s heart here tonight!” He cleared his throat, his trained voice modulating each spoken word carefully.  
 

_“You are merry now, Loki, but not for long_  
You may frisk and flourish your tail.  
From my fields and farms shall ever strike forth  
Frost-cold counsel to foil you.” 

   
Arna nodded, a stiff jerk of the head, and thanked him, but did not comment any further. The bard smiled politely and left the table. After a little while Arna also excused herself and went to seek her bed. She told the other women she was tired, and they could easily see she was speaking the truth – there were dark smudges like bruises under her eyes.  
 

\- x - 

   
The next day after the morning meal Arna asked Einnis to step aside with her. He was grouchy and out of sorts, having spent a night in the hall with too much ale and too little sleep, constantly fighting restlessness that hardly would let him sit still. Nevertheless he walked with his wife to a bench at the side of the yard.  
   
Arna sat down with her hands lightly clasped in her lap, looking straight ahead of her.  
   
“Einnis, all this merriment among Torgeirr’s clansmen has struck me with a sudden longing for my own clan. It is long since I last saw my father, and the ride to his farm from here is not overlong…”  
   
“You want us to ride on to visit Mjod?” Einnis asked. “Well do I understand your wish, Arna, and loath am I to tell you no, but it will be difficult, for I was planning to….”  
   
Arna overrode him, her voice low but forceful. “I’ve been thinking that I might bring little-Arna along, and with our men for protection the two of us could ride to my father’s even today. You can follow us when the clan gathering is at an end. And if other things have come up and you need to stay longer, or you want to visit with others in the clan, or travel down to Kaupang, even - you could do that too. Arna and I will be safe at my father’s farm. We’ll stay there for a while, maybe a week at most. I know father will send additional guards with us to see us safely back home if the time comes for us to leave and you haven’t arrived yet.”  
   
Arna smiled, her lips twitching. “I think this is a good plan. Little-Arna should get to spend some time with her mother’s family. I long to see them all and to hear their news – and to tell them mine.”  
   
Einnis readily agreed, delighted at this turn of events, unable to keep his relief out of his voice. “Of course! I am sure Torgeirr and Sigrid will understand. You were here for the ceremony, that’s the important part. I am happy that you get to spend some time with Mjod, and he will surely be glad to see you. I should have thought of this myself! Little-Arna will enjoy staying at her grandfather’s. Time passes so quickly, and none of us know what fate has in store.”  
   
“It is settled, then,” Arna said in an expressionless voice. “I will seek out Torgeirr and Sigrid and give them my goodbyes, if you will find our men and order them to make ready to ride.”  
   
Mere hours later Arna’s company was mounted and ready to depart from the courtyard. Einnis was sending all their men with his wife and daughter. “Above all I want you two to be kept safe,” he said. “I will manage to make my way north anyhow. If worst comes to worst, I can ask Torgeirr for a man or two to accompany me.”  
   
He reached up to hug his daughter who was sitting on the horse in front of her mother, the little girl’s bright eyes sparkling with glee at the prospect of new adventures.  
   
“You be a good girl now and obey your mother. Take care, honey-girl, and behave when you meet your grandfather! Show him what a big and clever girl you are,” Einnis admonished his daughter with a smile in his voice.  
   
Little-Arna’s arms clasped his neck, her soft warm cheek pressing firmly against his. “Bye, daddy, bye. Love you,” she whispered into his ear. Einnis squeezed her for a moment longer, then let her go.  
   
Arna reached out to give him her hand in parting. For the first time in two days she looked her husband straight in the eye, her face curiously devoid of emotion, though her eyes seemed storm-dark in contrast to the pale linen of the wife’s coif framing her stiff face. “Goodbye, Einnis.”  
   
She nudged her horse into motion. It ambled forward, the guards and Arna’s servant-woman following behind as the little party rode out of the gate and onwards along the broad track between the grass-covered ancestors’ barrows. The last thing Einnis saw was little-Arna’s arm, reaching out to be visible to him beyond her mother’s back, waving wildly. He heard his daughter’s high-pitched voice calling happily back to him. “Bye-byyyyye!”  
   
Then they were out of earshot, and gone from sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **"Long is one night, and longer are two” etc** – The concluding stanza to the poem “Skirnismal” (see the notes to chapter 24). The stanza is the lovesick god Frey’s reaction to learning that his beloved Gerd will indeed meet him and make love to him, but not until nine more nights have passed. 
> 
> **Ættleiding ceremony** – I have found bits and pieces of information about the ceremony in several sources, some of which partly contradict one another on the finer specifics of requirements. I have combined the elements into one as seemed most symbolically realistic to me. The one thing that every source mentions is the necessity of brewing ale, and the shoe made from the hide of a bull’s right leg, that all male clan members present must step into – an effective if not very subtle indication of the duty of all the clan’s men! 
> 
> **Women’s high table** – The Norse did not at all practice segregation of the genders, and women and men frequently sat drinking and talking together. A farm’s high seat had space both for the master and mistress. However at large feasts it appears from sagas and poems that there were separate tables or benches for the women, and dainty dishes prepared especially for the women too. 
> 
> **Kvad** – A lay, a Norse descriptive poem, normally about gods or kings, following very stringent rules as to content and form. The Norse used alliteration instead of end-rhymes, and they used poetic descriptive passages called _kennings_ which makes the poetry more difficult to interpret: A thing or event was not mentioned by its real name but by a fitting descriptive word or phrase instead. Kvads consequently could turn into veritable riddles. 
> 
> **Bard** – Bards ("skalds") and their art were highly respected in Norse society, and every king had one or more bards in his retinue to chronicle his achievements through poetic verses (kvads). The kvads lived on long after the bard – and the king - had died, and were a chief source of information when the sagas of the Norse kings were put down in writing centuries later. The Icelandic sagas sometimes have main protagonists responding with small kvads during important conversations. The ability to do so was much admired.
> 
>  **You are merry now, Loki, but not for long etc.** – this verse merges lines spoken by the ski and revenge (!) goddess Skadi from two stanzas, 50 and 51, of the Norse poem Lokasenna (Loki’s Quarrel). In this poem Loki gate-crashes a feast held by the other gods, and insults them horribly in turn, only to be answered in kind, till Thor chases Loki away with his hammer. The lines Arna asks about are the revenge goddess Skadi’s response to Loki when he insults her husband and brags that he was first in line when the gods killed Skadi’s father, the giant Tjatsi. Her full response is longer and more venomous than I quote here.


	26. Chapter 26

Einnis and Eoin did not seek each other out or steal away together by night or by day while the ættleiding gathering lasted. The day after the ceremony they happened to both walk across the yard at the same time. The look that briefly passed between them drove crimson heat into their cheeks and fixed wide irrepressible grins on their faces. Joy like sunlight sparkled in their eyes.  
   
“I ride north in three days, after the noontide meal,” Einnis said under his breath as he walked evenly and without stopping right past Eoin.  
   
“I’ll be waiting,” Eoin responded, equally quietly, and moved on.  
   
That was all. Content that they would have time alone, they each thereafter kept themselves occupied as was expected of them.  
   
All through the next days Einnis was cheerful and friendly, if also sometimes distracted, participating in storytelling, discussions and betting over the ale bowls. Many noted his ebullient mood, loud laughter and bright smiles and found him to be much better company than his younger self; the cautious, serious and guarded Einnis who always used to rein himself firmly in.  
   
Eoin spent the three days after the ættleiding going over the woodcarving work with Gunnar. They looked at the hall and the other houses where Torgeirr wanted new and grander carvings to replace the old ones, carefully studied the available wooden material that had been stocked on the farm, chose the wood that would be used, and planned the carving patterns and progress in detail. 

New and more magnificent dragon-heads for the gables were first on Torgeirr’s list, and those would have to be made and affixed while there was summer weather to work in. Gunnar and Eoin climbed about on the roofs, examining the wood and deciding whether any of it would need replacement.  
   
Torgeirr took time to talk briefly with the woodcarvers and explained his intentions, but mostly he was occupied with matters of the clan. His many family members used the rare opportunity of such a large gathering to not only exchange news and renew friendships, but also to take up unresolved clan matters, most of them related to inheritance disputes.  
   
As the gathering came to an end on the third day, Torgeirr decided that he would follow his father’s brother Olaf Haka and his cousins back to their farm to be a witness in the final settlement of a long-standing inheritance quarrel. Tempers had flared between the men at the gathering the evening before, and only Torgeirr’s cheerfulness and even temper had stopped a couple of his cousins from coming to blows.  
   
Before Torgeirr left he sought Einnis out and said his goodbyes, wishing his brother-in-law a fair homewards ride.  
   
“I wish I could have joined you, Einnis, I would have liked to see my newborn nephew and greet my sister at Einstad. But achieving lasting peace among my clansmen is more important. Much as they all are good men, they’ve proved once more that the ancients had it right;  
 

_Friends may be many  
And all in agreement  
Till they meet to drink and be merry.  
Ever the same source  
of strife this proves;  
guest will quarrel with guest.”_

   
Torgeirr couldn’t help laughing a little, but loud bickering and heated disagreements within his own clan went against the very grain of his own conciliatory bent and easygoing nature, and he was clearly tired and annoyed. He was also in a hurry, and only exchanged a few further words with his brother-in-law before they took leave of each other.

Soon thereafter the last group of visiting clansmen departed, Torgeirr among them.  
   
The farm became a quieter place, though still filled with hustle and bustle. Sverri climbed about high and low, eager to get to know his new place of living, and enjoying himself with the children of servants and thralls alike. But he always returned to his mother’s side in the evenings, and he also now and then appeared to follow in Eoin’s and Gunnar’s footsteps for a little while, if they happened to be in the wood storage area or carrying ladders back and forth.  
   
“Do you like your new home?” Eoin asked the boy, stopping to mop sweat off his brow and unthinkingly speaking in Gaelic. The weather had gotten very warm, with the sun baking the walls and roofs of the tarred wooden farm buildings.  
   
“Yes, Eoin. Everyone’s nice here and father has promised me my very own pony,” the boy said brightly, skipping about excitedly. “But there’s no-one here except you who speaks like mother does.”

“No, Torgeirr doesn’t own any Irish thralls at the moment,” Eoin said, muttering his thought aloud to himself, a slight downward twist to his mouth as he watched Sverri running off to join some boys playing with toy warships by the stable.  
   
This brief moment proved the single sour note in an otherwise harmonious time for Eoin and his companions at Torgeirr’s farm. 

Eoin himself was as happy and seemingly carefree as a fox cub jumping to catch butterflies in the sunlight. He laughed at the least little opportunity, humming to himself while mulling over carving patterns. Both Gunnar and Muirenn remarked on his good mood. Eoin merely brushed their comments aside with a joke, though not before taking Muirenn’s hand and dancing some steps across the yard with her. His mirth was infectious. Not only did it make the normally dour Gunnar grin widely, it also clearly lightened Muirenn’s heart.  
   
“It’s summer, things are going well, Sverri looks happy, you’re feeling better. Let’s rejoice while we can!” Eoin smiled, spinning Muirenn around. She shook her head at him in mock disapproval, but she laughed. The troubles that the new pregnancy had been giving her had lessened, and she had noted how much Sverri was enjoying himself among the children of the farm.  
   
Eoin kept close to Gunnar and stayed among the servants. Except for the discussions with Torgeirr about the carving he kept himself away from visiting clan members. After three days however he made ready to depart, having mentioned to Gunnar the reason why he chose to leave the master woodcarver alone.  
   
“I will go back to Kaupang and work on our easier assignments, the tent poles and the bedposts for Earl Hogne’s mother. You and Muirenn should remain here as long as you can – it will ease her heart, I think, the longer she can stay close and watch over the boy as he settles into his new life.”  
   
Gunnar was in full agreement. “This is a good place to work. The longer I can stay here, the more I will like it. And when we get back to Kaupang, Muirenn will by and by have a new child to occupy her mind.” The wood-carver couldn’t help grinning, though he averted his eyes in an attempt to keep his innermost feelings of gratitude and wonder private. His life had taken a new direction with Muirenn. After his years of drunken misery, a fine wife and the prospect of raising children of his own that would one day honor his memory seemed good fortune beyond any hope or expectation.  
   
In the early morning light Eoin said his goodbyes with a light heart. Even his parting with Sverri did not weigh too heavy on him; the boy would after all be coming to Kaupang with his father later in the season.  
 

\- x - 

   
The last day before Einnis was to ride northwards he sat with his sister by the High Seat after the evening meal. Sigrid looked at him. “You seem so happy and in high spirits, Einnis, it gladdens my heart. I wasn’t expecting you to be this eager to rejoin Arna. I must admit have been wondering what had happened with the two of you and whether there was some quarrel between you. You yourself looked out of sorts the first day of your visit, and Arna left unexpectedly and in a hurry. Though she was polite about it, to me she seemed both angered and grieved.”  
   
Einnis stared at her in obvious surprise. “Quarrel? Angry? Not at all. Arna and I have a good marriage. She was tired from waking over little-Arna, that’s all. It isn’t strange or unexpected that she longed to see her father. The two of them were always very close. ”  
   
“So all is well between the two of you?” Sigrid probed.  
   
Einnis frowned. “All is well. As you say yourself, sister, I am happy. My little family thrives, and our farms are expanding. You’ve seen for yourself that little-Arna is the very apple of our eye, and Freidis is a promising child and growing steadily. I hope we’ll soon enough give the two of them a brother.”  
   
Sigrid nodded and lowered her eyes. “Well, then. I am glad to have been mistaken.... I did not have the opportunity to speak much with Arna while she was here.”  
   
Einnis moved his legs restlessly, looking shamefaced. “How goes it with you and Torgeirr, Sigrid? Is all well with you two? It pains me that you must see another woman’s son step forward as Torgeirr’s heir. Is there nothing to be done?”  
   
Sigrid shrugged, looking away. “We’ve tried it all – seid, sacrifices at the blots, runes carved in secret and the rune-sticks placed in our bed, every possible advice that the wise women of the dales have had to suggest, potions, rituals for the moon phases, baths in Freya’s sacred spring…. The gods do not want it to be, and I shall have to accept that.”  
   
Though she carried herself with pride and dignity as always, Sigrid’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Torgeirr is a good man, the very best - I have come to care for him deeply. I wish for no other husband, and he assures me he wants no other wife, though by now he could easily have divorced me for being barren.”

She looked down into her lap, studying her fingers, turning the hands this way and that, her face in shadow where her coif blocked the light from the hearth fire. “If that ever happened, I would return to you, Einnis. Not easily would I find a new husband willing to take on an infertile wife, unless it were an old man with many heirs already, one who looked mostly for a woman to assist him in his dotage.”  
   
Einnis took her hand for a moment and squeezed it hard, looking at her earnestly. “You would be more than welcome to return to us, Sigrid, but may Frey and Freya both see to it that such a thing will never come to pass! If our parents hadn’t died, or I had been older, you would have married much earlier. Maybe then it would have been easier … I do not know what to tell you, sister mine, except that I yet hope the Norns will grant you children. It is not too late for you. And remember what the godi foretold at your wedding; there would be more than one son.”   
   
She bit her lip, shaking her head. “Yes, Torgeirr will have several sons, according to that prophecy. Perhaps he will take himself a fridla soon who can bear him more children. It’s common enough, and I couldn’t blame him if he did – a man should have heirs to honor his name and his life’s work after his time is through.” Sigrid looked up at her brother and sighed, her face pinched and pale. “Perhaps there are some among Torgeirr’s clan who will ask us to foster a child. Gladly would we do so. A farm is not complete without children growing up round the high seat.”  
   
Sigrid paused for a moment, then carried on in a low voice. “I very much wanted children of my own. But fate and fortune do not always go hand in hand.”  
   
Einnis shuddered slightly, as if from an icy draft across his shoulders. “Ketil spoke much of fate, the day before he died…”  
   
Sigrid turned back to him, worried. “It’s a well-known saying, and we all know that fate rules all events and all lives, Einnis. Don’t see such a small coincidence as an omen of ill tidings for our clan  – I don’t.”  
   
They sat silent for a little while, lost in their separate thoughts. When Sigrid eventually spoke again she changed the topic.  
   
“Well now, have you talked to Jaran while you’ve both been here? I’ve not seen you two together, but then I haven’t had much time to see you at all.”  
   
Einnis stiffened, his mood visibly darkening, much like the sky when a thundercloud suddenly blocks the sun on a summer afternoon. “I haven’t got anything to talk to him about.”  
   
“Truly? Hasn’t he even wanted to thank you in person for the valuable gift that made his liberation possible?”  
   
“Well yes, he’s made it clear he appreciated that.”  
   
“As well he should! So, you two have nothing left unspoken? ”  
   
“He’s a former thrall, Sigrid, and well you know it. I cannot be seen to show such a one attention, or spend time talking to him. It would do us no good. People would talk.”  
   
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Torgeirr speaks freely with him, and so do I – no-one in the clan seems to think we endanger our honor on that account. You seem strangely over-prudent and cold in this, not at all like your kind and generous self. He’s a talented wood-carver and has come to be respected as such. And more importantly, he’s almost been a second foster-father to Sverri. The boy cares for him very much.”  
   
Einnis didn’t respond at once. He pulled his knife out of its sheath and started fiddling with it, looking down at it as he kept passing it back and forth from one hand to the other.  
   
“Yes, well…. Better safe than sorry, sister. Honor once lost may never be regained, and ill fame lasts forever.”  
   
Sigrid couldn’t quite manage to let the matter go. “I sense that there is something more at work between the two of you, and well do you know that I do. You two spent time alone together building Einstad. That was no mean feat. You were there alone for months on end, working and living as closely as ever did foster-brothers, and in the end you gave him his freedom.”  
   
She paused, but when she saw that Einnis would not respond, she carried on. “Jaran seems to me to be likable, trustworthy, honest and loyal. It is passing strange to me that you would have no time for him now, and no words to say to him. If he became your friend at Einstad, one you could open your mind to, you should not hide it. Are you mayhap afraid to admit to having found a lasting and deep friendship with a loysing, and a foreign one at that?”  
   
Einnis looked up, his face going pale.  
   
“I think the less said about this, the better, Sigrid. Ketil made it very plain what a shame it was for me to have worked side by side with a thrall for so long, and warned me of the malicious slander and gossip that might arise. Others will think as did he. I am heeding Ketil’s advice and will say no more.”  
   
Sigrid frowned and shook her head in exasperation. “Building a solid farm with your own hands brings you honor, not shame! Ketil… was a very unhappy man, as we both now know. Perhaps some of what he spoke to you, and to me, and some of his actions too, reflected his own unhappiness most of all.”  
   
She leaned forward to reclaim Einnis’s hand. “Never would I see you that unhappy, brother. Be very sure that I would give my all, do whatever it takes, to avoid such a thing coming to pass. I have worried for a long time that my favorite brother has oft-times seemed so sad. Since you came back from Einstad… “  
   
She was silent for a moment, but Einnis didn’t respond, nor meet her eyes.  
   
“Know that it has eased my heart this time to see you smiling and enjoying life.” She squeezed his hand and smiled. “When you put your mind to it, you’ve always been as stubborn as any ox being pulled away from a field of clover, Einnis Eldhug – I could never make you open up to me if you didn’t want to. I will say no more about Jaran now, except to remind you to heed the lore of the wise ones:  
 

_Cherish those close to you, never be  
The first to break with a friend:  
Care eats the one who can no more   
Open his heart to another.”_

 

\- x - 

   
Eoin met Einnis an hour’s ride down the trail, sitting peacefully on a little knoll overlooking the track, whittling a piece of wood while he waited. Their greeting was no more that a brief handclasp, but their eyes and smiles said all that they felt as loudly as if they’d shouted it from a hilltop.  
   
Eoin gestured to his horse and the bulging pack tied behind its saddle. “While you’ve been idling and taking your time back up at the farm, I stopped by the little farmstead down the valley, bought us bread and a big cheese, some dried meat too. Told them I was in a hurry and would have to travel to Kaupang without stopping all the time. We should have enough for a few days, I trust. And anyway… sitting around munching food is not what I chiefly plan to do!”  
   
“No, but what you plan to do instead is very hungry work,” Einnis laughed. “A man needs nourishment to keep it up and to keep going!”  
   
Eoin grinned. “I’ve got good blankets too. Just in case you don’t manage to keep me warm…. all the time.”  
   
The look that passed between them held heat enough for a smith’s forge. Einnis’s ears turned pink, and he hastily indicated his own horse’s pack. “I’m bringing food as well, lots of it – you’d think Sigrid believed she was fitting me out for raiding abroad. I even have a mead-skin! And I borrowed a bow and arrows from Torgeirr. Told him I would be riding cross country to get to Mjod’s faster, could shoot any small game that I happened to flush.”  
   
He drew a breath. A flash of guilt at deceiving his wife, his sister and his good friend crossed his features, but the brief moment passed, and he couldn’t help smiling broadly with glee. “Let’s go!”  
   
They rode for a little while down the track, but at the first suitable place they turned away from it and cantered in among the tall trees, disappearing from view and entering a world apart.

\- x - 

The year had been hovering at the very cusp of summer during the ættleiding gathering. Now the calm and sunny weather ushered in the warmest season, the time of light and warmth and growth, the landscape opening up in full and fertile bloom. The forest foliage was green and heavy, still shining with the freshness of recent spring. Grasses reached for the sky in the clearings between the trees, and woodland flowers bloomed everywhere – colorful yellows, soft blues and lilacs in the clearings, bashful white stars and nodding pink buds in the shadows and among the rocks. The chatter and chirping of birds was everywhere, the persistent noise of voracious younglings in hidden nests, never satisfied, always demanding more.  
   
The two men rode through long stretches of bilberry brush under tall spruces, and now and then emerged into open landscapes, where soggy moss edged the brooks that burbled down from the woodland lakes. Their horses kept sinking into the rich bog loam, making wet slurping sounds whenever a hoof was extricated. Several times they came across does with their new-borns in the shades of leafy branches and half-hidden among tall grasses, the fawns lying perfectly still, their mothers hovering nearby, all dark eyes and pointed quivering ears, fleet bodies tense.  
   
The first time Einnis reached for his bow, but Eoin stopped him. “We have all that we need for now. Let them be. Let them live and grow and enjoy life for a while.”  
   
Only twice during those first magical days did they hear the noise of other people, hunters or wayfarers in the woods, and once the steady strong axe blows of far-off tree-felling rang out across the miles. Each time they changed their direction slightly and avoided meeting anyone, preferring the feeling of invisibility, keeping their distance from everyday cares and ordinary life, alone together in a beautiful world filled with nature’s abundance.  
   
They stopped whenever they felt like it, enjoying each other in the heat of noon-time or in the long shadows of the setting sun, crushing flowers and grass underneath as they rolled and tumbled in their urgency. Other times they lingered in the cool shade under ancient trees, languidly and lovingly taking it slow, building towards completion with sweet kisses, delighted murmurs and tender caresses.  
   
A few days into their journey the most immediate and frantic need had been slaked. They settled by a woodland lake, lighting their fire on a small grassy promontory that extended out into the calm water. Eoin set water to boiling for the evening porridge and cut down some spruce branches to form a makeshift bivouac for the two of them, while Einnis tended to the horses. Afterwards they sat close together on a log, watching dusk descend over the lake, sharing the rest of the mead-skin’s contents between them.

The rings of surfacing trout kept appearing on the calm water surface, the hooting of an owl could be heard in the distance as night fell, and the black shapes of quick bats flitted across the lake in dizzying haste.  
   
Eoin fed more dry branches into the fire, watching the golden light play over his companion’s features and glitter in his drowsily contented eyes. Unable to keep his hands to himself, Eoin leaned in, his own eyes bright with the fire’s glow, taking Einnis’s face in his hands, kissing him deeply.  
   
He caressed Einnis’s face, one hand sliding from his cheek down his neck where his fingers brushed against the Thor’s hammer thong. He pulled the little silver pendant out of Einnis’s tunic, rubbing it between thumb and index finger. His lips let go reluctantly, and he butted his forehead against Ennis’s instead, looking into his eyes.  
   
“I wish I could have kept the cross you gave me. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Eoin said softly.  
   
“You did what I wanted you to do,” Einnis murmured. "That golden thing was as nought to me compared to….”  
   
Neither spoke for a moment. They sat very still, close together in the darkness, brow to brow, Eoin still holding the thong tight as he kept pulling both the Thor’s hammer and its owner close. Eventually he drew a deep breath.  
   
“Do you never take this off?” he said.  
   
“I wear it for protection,” Einnis replied. “My father gave it to me when I was a boy….”  
   
“His purpose failed. It won’t protect you from me!” Eoin whispered, the intent behind his heated words and the gleam in his eyes making Einnis shudder.  
   
“Come, Einnis. Come to me….” Their mouths met again, Eoin nipping lightly along Einnis’s lower lip, teeth pressing into the soft flesh gently, pulling it outwards playfully for a moment. Eoin’s hand let go the Thor’s hammer and moved downwards, pulling at the laces of Einnis’s trousers and sliding in under the fabric. Einnis already was half tumescent, tense with breathless anticipation. Now as Eoin closed his fist around him he grew hard and fully erect in an instant.  
   
Holding Einnis in a possessive and familiar grip, Eoin sensed the increase in girth, the hardening cock swelling eagerly in his hand. He firmed his hold and squeezed, claiming his own, Einnis opening his mouth wider to welcome Eoin’s excited groan and breathing it deep into his own lungs. Einnis sat still and tense, his parted lips unwilling to leave Eoin’s, his entire being in thrall to the knowing grasp of that bold encircling fist, anticipating the pleasure and fulfillment to come.   
   
Eoin leaned slowly to the side, lips coasting over Einnis’s cheek and down to his damp neck, lingering over the pulse point under his jaw, pressing down on the sensitive skin, feeling each urgent heartbeat as if it were his own.  
   
Eoin breathed hotly into Einnis’s ear, his grip growing stronger. There was mischief in his voice. “You can keep your puny silver version, Norseman,” Eoin whispered in exaggerated awe and wonder. “This hammer here is the biggest and best. And by the grace of God it’s all mine. I am sure that your mighty Tor is grieved and green with envy, for his tool isn’t half as hard and strong and ready!”  
   
Einnis exhaled, a happy gush of chortling delight that refused to be quelled. Even after he had positioned himself to show Eoin the reality behind those flattering and challenging words, Einnis kept snorting loudly with carefree laughter.  
 

\- x - 

   
Their daily routine was easily established, and very different from the distant days of hard labor in the wintry Einstad woods.  
   
They got up to piss and prepare food, eat and tend the horses, then returned to their resting place in the lean-to, the makeshift mattress of blankets. Their clothes frequently discarded and forgotten, they dozed for a while in the shade and woke up to touch and taste and possess each other anew.  
   
Hot sun baked the sheltered cove and made the lake surface shine as if it had been covered by a thin sheet of the mountain dwarves’ finest gold. They postponed speaking of the future or the past, pushing all cares away, delaying the hard talk and possible ultimatums that awaited. For a few more days they lived as if in a land apart from time, a shimmering place of contentment, peace and plenty where pleasure was always available, freely given and eagerly accepted. A hazy glow lingered over the landscape like enchantment - every rock, tree, flower and blade of grass looking strangely bright and new.  
   
The third evening by the lakeshore they sat together in silence, Eoin reclining against a standing rock that still held warmth from the long day’s sun, Einnis sitting between Eoin’s spread legs and leaning back against his chest. They watched dusk descend over the quiet lake.  
   
Movement on the far bank caught their eye, and a large moose appeared out of the forest, ambling with slow steps down to the water’s edge. It stood wary and quiet for a moment, but sensing no danger it stepped through the dense reeds and out into the lake, lowering a head with massive antlers to drink.  
   
The two men sat very still, enjoying the sight of the magnificent animal in the tranquil and serene setting.  
   
“It reminds me of the new world, the one that will arise after Ragnarok, just like the bards describe it,” Einnis whispered.  
 

_“Now do I see the earth rise again  
from the waves’ foam, green and fair -  
Water cascades from the fells and cliffs  
Eagles fly over, hunting for fish.”_

   
“A new world?” Eoin mused. “No, it reminds me more of the garden of Eden, the joyful and beautiful place where the very first humans once lived in harmony with all living creatures, before there was shame in the world.”  
   
“No shame?” Einnis said, wonderingly. “I have never heard of such a place.”  
   
Eoin hugged him tightly from behind, placing his chin in the crook of Einnis’s neck, lips ghosting over his attentively listening ear.  
   
“No shame,” he confirmed quietly. His palms slid across Einnis’s warm chest in a slow caress, fingers splayed. Both hands eventually came to rest directly over the pulsing heart, one on top of the other, exerting gentle pressure to better be able to feel the steady strong beat at Einnis’s core. “No shame,” Eoin repeated tenderly.  
   
The big moose lifted its head, water dripping from its mouth, bright strings of droplets splashing into the lake as it shook its massive head and fur. The huge animal looked across the lake for a moment, having now realized that there were other beings nearby, but evidently decided that there was no immediate danger. It remained standing in the water and soon began to feed from the water plants along the lake’s edge.  
   
The two humans on the far shore busied themselves with their own affairs.  
 

\- x - 

   
One early afternoon Einnis sat up and sniffed himself, then leaned over to sniff Eoin’s body, making a thorough job of it. “We stink!” he proclaimed with considerable delight.  
   
Tearing himself from Eoin’s arms and ignoring his half-hearted grumbles of protest Einnis rose to wade into the lake, walking carefully on the silt and sand among the slippery rocks, his feet sinking into the loose mud at the bottom. He crouched in the shallows where the water had been warmed by the sun all day, scooping up handfuls both to wash and to cool himself.  
   
He turned back to Eoin, a glint in his eyes. “The water feels good and you’re as dirty as I am…. Probably far worse! Come down here and wash, you Irish malingerer, then let’s go for a swim!”  
   
Eoin grimaced good-naturedly, feigning disagreement and offense, but nevertheless got to his feet. He made the few steps down to the water’s edge and waded out into the clear water, arms stretched over his head and hands joined, his supple body on full display.  
   
For once Einnis resisted temptation. He didn’t wait for Eoin to finish his ablutions, but instead splashed further out into the lake, diving forward, and disappearing. He came up further out, gasping and spluttering.  “I’ll not go far,” he called, strong strokes taking him away from the shore. He swam in among the belt of lily-pads and white water-lilies that covered the lake’s southernmost, sunny part. Once more he was gone from view.  
   
Eoin waded out as far as he could without losing his foothold in the treacherously loose silt. He stood still and relaxed, looking out over the lake, the calm water settling around his thighs and accepting him as a part of the landscape, his own reflection smiling happily up at him as he guessed Einnis’s intent.  
   
With a sudden whoosh and water cascading in every direction Einnis rose up out of the cold depths right in front of his waiting companion. Water pouring down his face and body, Einnis grabbed Eoin and pulled him close. Stumbling on the uncertain lake bottom, hanging on to each other for support, they flailed with the effort to stay upright, stepping on each other’s toes. Finally they found a sort of precarious balance together.  
   
Eoin laughed, carefree gales of mirth pealing across the lake as he now belatedly fended off his attacker, water splashing around his legs as he backed towards the shore. “If you think I’m this easily frightened or surprised, you’d better think again, my graceless merman.”  
   
Einnis threw himself forward again, grappling for better purchase on Eoin’s wet body. “I am no weak and frail merman, but a powerful water sprite, lurking in the green depths, waiting to lure you into my domain. Do not flee from me, fair human – I have you now, and will not let you go!”  
   
Eoin pushed him off, still laughing. “Foul lecherous sprite, though you don’t look half bad, you’ll never vanquish me. I’ll have you know I’m already spoken for, and I am steadfast and true. No power on earth can move me an inch from my only one.”  
   
Einnis grew serious, though his eyes still twinkled as he held on tight to Eoin’s naked body. “Come with me anyhow, Eoin. The water feels so good.”  
   
Eoin lifted his right hand, one fingertip tenderly tracing Einnis's lower lip. “I like it when you speak my name,” he murmured softly, then drew a breath. “I can’t swim very well. My monastery was close to the river, as you have reason to recall, but we rarely went there to bathe.”  
   
Einnis frowned, then splashed out of the water onto solid ground, looking back sternly and pointing at Eoin admonishingly. “Don’t you move!” A moment later he was back, tying a piece of rope around his waist like a belt.  
   
“Come here,” he said, wading back out to place Eoin’s right hand on the rope at the small of his own back. “Hang on. Use your legs. And don’t worry.”  
   
Eoin willingly followed his instructions. Einnis leaned forward, pulling Eoin along as his legs kicked off, and they floated together out towards deeper water.  
   
Einnis panted a little, swimming with slow, strong strokes. Eoin moved with him, confident and unafraid, as close as if the two of them formed one swimmer’s body, holding on to the tight rope, and kicking off with his legs. Einnis’s powerful and rhythmical movements took them from the shore and out to the belt of bright green lily pads.  
   
The plants’ long slippery stems hooked the swimmers’ legs and wound around their limbs, trailing behind them as they swam, the wet leaves clinging to their bodies. The greenish-white buds and large white flowers, each with a yellow sunburst at its centre, bobbed in the two men’s wake as they glided past.  
   
The water was clear and faintly green. Looking down was like watching a mysterious submerged forest through a shard of expensive, opaque glass - a strange and half-hidden woodland world in the depths. Long crooked plant stems descended into the murk, and the twisted shapes of broken tree branches among the rocks on the bottom were barely discernible in the darkness far below. All of it seemed distorted and unrecognizable, and yet at the same time eerily familiar.  
   
They moved as if weightless, Eoin sensing Einnis’s lower body working steadily under him, the strong arms and legs pulling them both forward through the sparkling cold water, Einnis’s buttocks, calves and heels briefly rubbing up against Eoin with every even push and stroke. Eoin leaned a little to the side, trailing one hand behind him in the water, his fingers gently touching and exploring a perfect and fully open water-lily as they passed it, sensing its soft and supple texture. He kept his body still as he lifted his head, looking up into the sky.  
   
Up there in the far-away blue a few light white clouds drifted, perfectly mirrored in the clear lake water and keeping the swimmers company across the shining surface. It seemed to Eoin that the two of them were floating together in beauty through the skies, hovering between heaven and earth in a strangely trancelike state, moving effortlessly among the clouds, rising far above all dangerous and murky depths below.  
   
But out on deeper waters the lake was cold. Violent shivers and chattering teeth soon enough brought the men back to reality. Einnis turned shore-wards, his whole body shuddering against Eoin’s as they both now moved as fast as they could.  
   
“T-t-t-or’s balls, but it’s f-f-freezing cold out there!” Einnis wheezed, kicking strongly, striving to get back to the warmth of the shore. Once the water was sufficiently shallow for him to reach the lake bottom he rose to his feet and waded on in a hurry, Eoin following along till the water lapped no higher than their thighs.  
   
Balancing unsteadily on the shifting silt, Eoin still rubbed up against Einnis’s cold naked body, both of them shivering violently. Slippery as a seal, Eoin rounded on Einnis and faced him. “S-s-stop” he whispered with a shaky ghost of a grin. “I w-w-want to get w-w-warm right now!” Eoin wound his icy arms firmly round Einnis’s neck and lifted himself, legs opening wide above the glistening surface of the water. Einnis instinctively moved to receive and embrace him. He widened his stance, his feet digging into the soft and treacherous loam, bracing himself as he kept lifting Eoin, holding him tightly in his arms.  
   
Einnis managed to lumber a few heavy steps towards the shore, but the warmer water in the shallows still lapped against his calves when he stopped to kiss Eoin deeply, and to kiss him again. And again.  
   
The sun was shining and the air was warm, rapidly re-heating their bodies once out of the water. Eoin held on, clinging tightly and surrounding Einnis as closely as ever the sinuous fable animals in Gunnar’s woodcarvings would weave into and around each other.  
   
Eventually Einnis pulled away from Eoin’s eager mouth, gasping. “You’re heavy,” he groaned.  
   
Eoin looked into Einnis’s smiling eyes, his own shaded with emotion far deeper than the lake waters. “You’re strong enough to take it,” he stated plainly, homing in on Einnis’s lips once more, his thighs squeezing Einnis’s haunches for emphasis.  
   
One part of Einnis was coming alive again, rising bravely from its frozen, shrunken state to new action, fuelled by the heat of fresh desire. Blindly Einnis made another step forward, his eyes blissfully shut to better experience the pleasure of Eoin’s tongue dueling with his own. Losing his footing with a yell, he stumbled in the shallow water, his eyes flying wide open. His knees hit the sand and silt one heartbeat before Eoin’s buttocks and back fared the same jarring fate.  
   
The impact made both lose their breaths, but Eoin still held on, pulling Einnis on his hands and knees up over himself, water lapping all around them. Their skin pebbled, but now not from the cold. With a wild shout of glee Eoin flipped Einnis over, hanging on to the rope belt as they rolled. Straddling Einnis and using the prone body under him for leverage, Eoin lifted himself up and out of the water even as he ducked down for a long, slow, smoldering kiss. Einnis’s hands slid eagerly up to find and grasp the firm buttocks Eoin was cheekily pushing into the air, wordlessly asking Eoin to find his way back to him, guiding him as he moved. Eoin sank down on him slowly, bracing himself on Einnis’s shoulders, already half-buried in silt.  
   
“This is it,” Eoin whispered throatily, his face hovering right above Einnis’s. He kept himself perfectly still for a moment, poised tensely on the brink of passion, all senses engaged. His eyes locked with Einnis’s and did not yield. “This is us, and you know it.”  
   
Einnis did not break eye contact, nor respond with words, but arched impatiently, pushing up against Eoin, his eyes glazing over with need. Eoin broke the impasse, making good use of the buoyancy in the shallow water. His eyes closed in concentration and bliss as he started to move.  
   
With every forceful thrust and push Einnis was sinking deeper into the sand, having to support himself on his elbows to keep his head above water, looking up at Eoin in hazy-eyed hungry awe. The slapping, splashing sounds of their joining reverberated across the lake.  
   
Shallow water billowed and boiled, frothing around their loins. The lake’s shimmering mirror shattered in a thousand shards, the ripples like sharp slivers of black glass, no reflection of the calm sky possible now. Choppy waves from the shore set the lily-pads out in the lake to dipping and rocking, disturbing the slumbering world in the depths. Lost in each other and a wealth of sensations neither man noticed or cared that the water surrounding them had turned muddy, opaque with grit and roiling silt, sand and pebbles churning wildly.  
   
They found their jubilant release together, oblivious to the lone dense cloud that just then drifted in front of the sun, blocking its bright warm light.  
   
All of a sudden the landscape turned dull, the lake water dark, and the air colder.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **" Dragon-head gables”** – Examples can still be seen today on the Norwegian “stave churches”, the style of which are assumed to directly continue the Viking style in buildings. This is confirmed by the fact that dragon-headed gables can clearly be seen on the houses depicted in one of the Oseberg tapestries (AD 832). 
> 
> **“Friends may be many, etc”** – Stanza 32 of Havamal 
> 
> **Loysing** – literally “one who has been let loose”, ie. A liberated thrall
> 
>  **Seid** – religious magic performed by female shamans
> 
>  **Fridla** – Free-born woman who is someeone’s mistress
> 
>  **“Cherish those close to you, never be…etc”** – Part of stanza 121 of Havamal.  
> (I bet I’ll have quoted most of Havamal by the time this fic is through.) 
> 
> **Ragnarok** – The end of the world in Norse mythology. 
> 
> **Now do I see the earth rise again..etc”** – Stanza from the last section of Voluspa, the Norse poem also known as “The seeress’ prophecy”, which describes the end of the world, Ragnarok, in frightening detail. It then goes on to describe the beautiful new, bountiful and peaceful earth that will arise. Einnis’s quote comes from that section of the poem. Whether and to what extent the poem has been impacted by a Christian world view has been much debated, but we’ll never know for sure.
> 
>  **“…before there was shame in the world”** – Eoin is speaking Norse and can talk of Shame, but not Sin. The Norse religion did not have a concept of sin, so Eoin would have no Norse word to use. Shame, on the other hand, as the opposite of Honor, was one matter every Norseman was all too eager to ponder and act on……..
> 
>  **The water sprite** – one of the many supernatural beings of Scandinavian folk lore. The sprite appears in many folk tales and myths of ancient oral tradition, not written down till the early 1800’s, but it is probable that the tradition goes back into medieval times. The water sprite lured humans out into lakes to drown, and could take on many shapes such as that of a white horse.


	27. Chapter 27

The one heavy cloud was soon joined by more. A fine drizzle of rain which turned heavier as the afternoon wore on heralded a shift in the weather. Einnis and Eoin reinforced their makeshift lean-to with more spruce branches and curled up together under their blankets, skin to skin. They lay as close as possible, holding each other tight, sensing each other’s breaths and heartbeats, watching the gray sheets of rain drifting across the lake and obscuring the far bank. It was as if the landscape was closing in around them, the wide spaces they’d been enjoying now shrinking as clouds, rain and darkness pressed in all around. Nature was packing up its warmth and beauty for another time, hiding it under a wet, gray cover, and instead putting its unwelcoming aspects on display.  
   
The countryside all of a sudden turned quiet. The birds had taken cover, and the wild animals sheltered in the woods. Only the lightest of breezes moved among the tree branches. All that could be heard was the faint rush of rain over the lake, and the steady drip-drip as rainwater fell from the branches above.  
   
“Tomorrow morning we have to leave,” Einnis murmured, his arm around Eoin going tense, pulling him closer. “I have lingered too long as it is – Arna will have left her father’s already and be on her way back home without me.”  
   
“I know,” Eoin said softly, rolling over on his side and out of Einnis’s arms. Supporting himself on one elbow, Eoin placed his other hand palm down on Einnis’s chest and looking down on him in the gloom. “But what next? What do you plan to do?”  
   
Einnis didn’t respond. Eoin nudged him.  
   
“The least you can do is tell it to my face, say it out loud.”  
   
“I am bound at my hands and feet, and you know it. The clan and my farms and all the people there, my wife and my two little daughters – they all depend on me. My duty is to them. I made a promise when I assumed the High Seat, and I will not break it. I cannot change my life and my fate.”  
   
“Is that truly the price your honor requires your heart to pay?”  
   
“It most certainly is!” Einnis said hotly. “A man’s honor is all that he has! A man’s good fame is all that remains in the end! Everything there is worth fighting for!”  
   
“If that is so, Einnis Eldhug, what are you doing here with me?”  
   
Einnis sighed, exhaling heavily, emptying his lungs so much his chest seemed to shrink. He opened his mouth, but had no words.  
   
Eoin shook his head slowly, his eyes wide and his face pale with emotion. “Einnis….!“  
   
“I’m here because…my life remains cold and dark and empty without you, Eoin. You bring light into my life and joy into my heart. The mere thought of you makes my body shiver and sing, and the sight of you sets my cock on fire.”  
   
Einnis ground his teeth and set his jaw, crimson washing over his cheeks as he averted his eyes. “I have made every effort to forget you, I have done all that was expected of me, I have tried and tried and tried, but after these years I still long for you. I still want nothing as much as you, Eoin, close to me, every day, all the time. Compared to that, doing my duty by clan and wife and family seems a cold and comfortless fate.”  
   
Eoin had listened breathlessly to Einnis’s confession. Now he drew a deep breath and reached for Einnis’s hands, holding them firmly between his own, seeking to read his face in the darkness, letting his own eyes speak for him. But Einnis bent his head, defeated. “That I should ever say such words out loud to another man… it is a shame I can hardly bear.”  
   
“You think the truth brings shame? Are you disgusted by what we share and what you feel? Do you listen to others and let them tell you the most important thing in your life is dishonorable and wrong?” Eoin flared, moved from deep affection to disappointment in a heartbeat.  
   
Einnis turned his head away for a moment, his shoulders drooping, not letting himself be riled. “What we do and what we are bring shame, Eoin. There is no denying that, ever. Even if we were weak-willed enough to give up living like proper men should, even if we convinced ourselves we could live without honor and pride, no-one else would overlook such a thing. They wouldn’t forgive, and they wouldn’t forget. We would be killed. Haven’t you heard what just happened to king Harald’s son, Roald Rettilbeine?”  
   
Einnis’s deep voice gained in strength and intensity. “Roald’s mother was a lapp woman, I assume that was why he was different. He lived in Hadeland and became a notorious seid-man there, boldly practicing his unmanly art and performing ergi acts, so they say - corrupting other men. When it became known, the king his father himself took action against him, and rid the land of such abominations – he sent his oldest son, Eirik Bloodaxe, Roald’s own brother, to kill him! Roald was burned in a house together with many other seid-men, and no other deed has yet won Eirik as much praise as this. Roald shamed him and the king’s clan, carrying on like a volva. Eirik restored their honor. Everyone wants such men dead.”  
   
Eoin shook his head empathically. “Eirik first and foremost killed a competitor, did he not? It does not appear he will be over-fond of protecting the life of any of his many half-brothers, when the time comes for them all to make decisions about the kingship. The reason a man puts about for his actions is often far from the plain truth, Einnis. I am sure Eirik welcomed any excuse to kill Roald.” 

Eoin lifted his hand, stalling Einnis’s objection. “Oh, I had heard the stories about Roald. Who hasn’t? I know why he was burned. I am not saying we would not always have to be very careful. But I refuse to believe there is any shame or evil in doing what my God and my heart tells me is nothing but right, and good, and true, and worth hoping and longing and waiting and fighting for.”  
   
Einnis snorted derisively, struggling with his emotions. “Is that how Christians think? Is that why those monks and priests ring bells and sing and walk about in dresses like women? I have thought it malicious lies and slander. I have never wanted to believe it of them.”  
   
“Believe what?” Eoin said quietly. “That they are like you and me?”  
   
Einnis pushed him off, and sat up, breathing heavily. “Not like me! Never! I’m not like those weak pitiful creatures, crawling on their knees, wringing their hands, calling on their tormented god and weeping helplessly, like maidens about to be ravaged…”  
   
Eoin jumped up, grabbing on to Einnis furiously, his eyes blazing. “Is that how you see me, Norseman?”  
   
Einnis at once bent his head, reaching out placatingly. “It is not. You are courageous, generous and true. I am sorry, Eoin.”  
   
“You sounded just like your brother talking,” Eoin said coldly.  
   
“Ketil said no more than what all men would think, if they saw us together like this. And then they’d let their weapons speak for them.”  
   
“Neither your brother nor you, nor any other Norseman I have met, know much about us Irish, or about Christians and our faith, or about life in the monasteries,” Eoin said, exasperated. “So let me tell you that in fact, the monks and priests would do common cause with Ketil Elmarson in telling you that this –“ his hand moved between them, indicating their naked bodies in the near-darkness - “is vile and disgraceful and an affront to God, and that they would not allow it. There are punishments….. “  
   
Eoin sighed heavily. “You need not hold them in contempt because they approve of men like you and me – for they certainly don’t!”  
   
Einnis leaned forward tiredly, not taking the bait, leaning his head on Eoin’s chest. “Eoin, that only goes to show I’m right. There is no way.”  
   
“You’re afraid that…”  
   
Einnis overrode the question. “I am not afraid to die. I am no coward. But I do not want it to be said, after, that I died shamed and dishonored, an abomination to be disposed of for the greater good. I will not give my clan and my daughters such a heavy burden of shame and sorrow to carry.” Einnis closed his eyes, his head sinking forward dejectedly. “These are the laws of gods and men, Eoin. The world is as it is. If you cannot change it, you have to accept it, and abide by the rules, and do so with pride and courage – and yes, with honor.”  
   
Eoin lifted a hand, his fingers touching Einnis’s neck, caressing him gently, a gesture as if to calm a skittish horse. “The world you speak of is a very large place, Einnis, and you’ve got reason to know it. You have left home and traveled across the seas once before, with no certainty of ever returning to uphold your precious honor and to do your sacred duty to the clan.”  
   
“A man is not a man, until he has traveled on viking raids, taken gold and riches, wielded his sword and offered the wolves blood in battle. Many men travel across the seas to win fame and fortunes at a much younger age than I did – I would have been mocked and ridiculed had I not gone raiding.”  
   
“Do you let your whole life be governed by the fear of other men’s scorn, Einnis? Listen to yourself!” Eoin paused for a moment, breathing heavily and collecting his thoughts, speaking slowly as he carried on. “What if we instead one day left here together, took ship far away from these shores? We could build a new life in peace.”  
   
“And go where, Irishman? There is no-where two men together would not be hunted down, tormented and killed. You said it yourself, that even those monks and eunuchs of yours won’t allow it. ”  
   
Eoin laughed, a dry incredulous chuckle. “Eunuchs?” He shook his head bemusedly, his mirth laced with much sadness, but he let the matter go. “I hear news of the wide world down in Kaupang, Einnis.  I will keep my ears perked. I will not give up hope. Somewhere there’s a place where we can settle, perhaps even build a new farm, and be together.”  
   
“You’re a dreamer. There is no such place on earth, Eoin.”  
   
“Does that then mean this is the last time I see you?” Eoin asked quietly. “Should I return to Ireland alone? Tell me – do you wish this to end, do you regret what we have together?”  
   
Einnis was silent. Eoin gripped his shoulder. “Tell me, Einnis. Tell me the truth. Would you rather have never laid eyes on me?”  
   
“No,” Einnis said, sounding choked. “I will never regret this, Eoin. Never. Whatever fate has in store for me, and for you, I would not ever wish my life lived without having known you.”  
   
Eoin swallowed, struggling to find his voice. “Then I will not give up hope, Einnis. I believe God wants us to be together, and nothing is impossible for Him. He will show us a way. And when He does so, you’d better be ready and heed my call.”  
   
Einnis didn’t respond, but he sighed as he buried his face in the crook of Eoin’s neck, embracing him, breathing deeply of Eoin’s musky smell, letting heartbeat answer heartbeat, using both his arms and legs to hold Eoin’s warm and responsive body close.  
   
Later, as he was falling asleep, the last thing Einnis did was to brush his lips across Eoin’s, soft and relaxed in slumber, and to press a light kiss to each of his closed eyelids. With that Einnis knew no more. Dreams claimed him and carried him to strange shores, but his body remained safely anchored in Eoin’s arms.  
   
All through their final summer night by the lake they clung together as closely as shipwrecked men on a makeshift raft, drifting on a stormy ocean. Lost in sleep they held each other tight, taking comfort in the shared and steady warmth between their bodies, the legacy of a glow that went far deeper than their skin.  
   
Around them the quiet rain continued falling, whispering softly across lake and land, and the vast lonely expanses of wood, water and mountains stretched far and wide in the misty darkness.  
 

\- x - 

   
Early the next day they broke camp and rode as fast as they could in the direction of the main track to Kaupang. The heavy rains continued, and though it wasn’t truly cold, the dull gray day and the sopping wet landscape made for a miserable and difficult ride. Einnis and Eoin huddled in their cloaks, bent closely over their horses’ heads, and spoke but little.  
   
Nature which previously had seemed so welcoming had now changed its tune. Squirrels now and then rushed up the tree boles along their path, fleeing for the safety of the topmost branches so fast that the two men barely got a glimpse of the brown-furred little beings, though they heard the sound of the animals scolding them from above. They passed a lake where a beaver was towing a birch branch through the water, and at once heard the loud forceful slap as its broad tail met the rain-spotted surface in warning before the animal dived for cover.  
   
The two men reached the road towards the end of the day, and sat for a moment looking out over the open expanses along the main through-fare from the cover of the woods, watching a group of riders go by. The travelers were intent only on getting to wherever they were going, their steeds trotting quickly by, neither people nor horses noticing the two unmoving shapes under the rain-heavy drooping branches.  
   
“When will we meet again?” Eoin asked quietly, not attempting to delay their goodbyes. “One year is much too long a time, and many years is unthinkable.”  
   
“Yes,” Einnis agreed in a low voice. “I could not wait that long. I will come down to Kaupang in the fall to do some trading for the farms, and I will manage then to go away for some days. Perhaps I can say I’ll be going hunting...”  
   
Eoin did not respond, but his horse made a step to the side, uneasy, tossing her head. Once he had the mare under control and nudged her back to the other horse, Eoin reached out to Einnis. Their hands locked in a firm grip.  
   
Eoin looked straight into Einnis’s eyes. “Goodbye and fare well till we meet again, Einnis. I will miss you every day. You know what I hope for. Don’t forget it.”  
   
Einnis nodded slowly, then shook his head in denial, but all the time squeezed Eoin’s hand, clearly struggling to loosen his grip. “Take care of yourself, Eoin. Be safe. Goodbye.”  
   
Finally they had to let go. At the very last Eoin lifted Einnis’s hand and quickly pressed a searing kiss into his palm. Then they rode quietly side by side without touching down to the track, and there they parted ways. Einnis at once turned northwards, while Eoin headed south. Neither man looked back as the distance between them widened, but their slumped posture and bent heads expressed all that they had not spoken out loud.  
   
Einnis asked for night’s shelter at a farm some way further along the road, and was welcomed with the hospitality that ancient custom demanded. He paid the farmer for the food they offered him, but not for the bench space where he tossed and turned through the night. It was the simple duty of all to see to it that wayfarers were not left out in the cold.  
   
Riding alone he made good progress northwards, halting in the evenings to stay at local farms through the night, and continuing on in the early morning. In this manner his journey went smoothly and at a goodly pace, and soon enough he was approaching his home valley, riding on familiar paths and tracks through the summer afternoon, not stopping for anything now his goal was in sight.

\- x - 

Einnis’s farm was strangely quiet as he rode along the track past the barrows and into the yard. A few thralls were carrying chopped wood from the woodshed, but left that task to hurry inside their house once Einnis rode up. The usual noise from the animals in stables and byres seemed uncommonly subdued. A small and dismal streak of smoke was rising from the fire hall’s smoke vent into the summer air. There were no other people in the yard, and no animals.  
   
Wearily Einnis got down off his horse, stretching his tired and stiff body and looking around. A head peeked out of the hall door for a moment, then disappeared again. Soon one of the thralls came out from the stable, bowing low and averting his eyes as he took the horse and hurried off with it. Einnis looked after man and horse, frowning.  
   
“Take my gear into the hall once you’ve tended to the horse,” he called, and turned slowly towards the hall. In that moment the door opened again, and Svein stepped out to meet him.  
   
Einnis looked about, worry plain in his stance and his voice. “Svein, where is the mistress? And my little girl? Are they not here yet? They should long since have arrived back home.”  
   
Svein bit his lip and righted himself, bracing for what was to come. “Yes, Einnis Elmarson, Arna Mjodsdottir arrived here five days ago, with a large company of her father’s armed men. She left two days later, carrying away all her goods and gear, and everything that she brought north as part of her dowry…”  
   
Einnis’s head snapped up, his jaws clenching and his eyes turning to slits. “She did what? What are you telling me, Svein?” he whispered hoarsely.  
   
Svein took a small step backwards and once more stood his ground, his voice terse and breathless and he delivered the bad news.  
   
“She gathered the whole household here in front of the hall, all the servants and free men and women, and called on us all to witness that she said herself divorced from you. She told us that you knew the reason well enough, none better, and that it did not bear repeating. She said that if you had any wit or wisdom you would let the matter rest, and not contest or gainsay her when she declared that the divorce was completely your fault. If you would dispute that, she said, she would be very pleased to meet you in public at the ting and tell every man and woman there assembled in detail exactly why she divorced you, though she took Freya herself to witness that such matters were better left unspoken.”  
   
Svein sighed. “She seemed cold, hard and determined. I have never seen her like that before. But even so, she sought me out and bid me tell you that her father had counseled her to let this matter rest without further action or quarrel, unless you were to contest the divorce at the ting. Bringing harm and grief to your clansmen, your friends or anyone else that is close to you would serve no purpose, so Mjod had told her.”  
   
Svein stopped, consulting his memory for a moment, and nodded to himself. “That was all she had to say. Then she ordered all her possessions packed, everything that belonged to her bride gift, her mundr and dowry. She let her men feast on many of the farm’s pigs and most of the ale, and went herself to pick out the animals she claimed as hers. She set some of her armed men to drive half of the cattle and the largest flock of sheep southwards. And she sent some of the thralls along too, as she needed them to care for the animals.”  
   
Svein shrugged nervously, relieved to have come this far in his grueling narrative.  
   
“They loaded everything else on pack-horses, and left three days ago. You didn’t meet them?”  
   
“No,” Einnis said, his voice hollow and distant. “I rode along many narrow tracks and paths in the hillsides on the way – all the shortcuts I’ve known since I was a boy. I was eager to get back home.” He laughed, an ugly, searing sound that stopped as abruptly as it began.  
   
Einnis stood still, his face pale and slightly green of hue as that of a drowned man, staring at Svein with unblinking eyes.  
   
“Little-Arna?” he eventually asked, nearly choking over the barely audible words. “Freidis?”  
   
“Your oldest did not come back north with the mistress, Einnis. The girl stayed behind at Mjod’s farm, so her mother said. But on the day of Arna Mjodsdottir’s departure, when she asked for Freidis to be brought to her so she could take the child south, Tekla her wet-nurse wept so sorely at losing the babe that the mistress changed her mind. She looked down at the child in Tekla’s arms and said… she said….”  
   
Svein came to a complete stop, and Einnis’s eyes bored into him, his stare pitch-black. “Tell me,” he ordered.  
   
“She… she said that the little one could stay here with you, for though she had found that you were no use to any woman as a man or as a husband, still in looking after a baby girl you might yet prove to have some worth.” Svein looked down, embarrassed and careworn at having been the one to repeat such a venomous insult. “With that she turned and did not look at little Freidis again. The child is still here, and Tekla cares for her as before.”  
   
Einnis made one step, and one more. Somehow he managed to walk through the hall door and across the floor towards the high seat, stumbling slightly as if walking blindfold. Everyone in the hall rose and made haste to file silently out the door, no-one saying a word, leaving the master completely alone. Einnis sat down on the bench as abruptly as if his feet had given way. After a little while he lifted his head and looked around the empty hall. It somehow looked abandoned. Tapestries, copper pans, decorated drinking horns, carved mead bowls – all of it was gone.  
   
Abruptly he jerked back on his feet and left the hall with hurried steps, passing the many members of his household who were waiting outside. They wordlessly and nervously made room for him, averting their eyes at first, but looking after him with varying degrees of pity, worry, fear and speculation once he had walked on by.  
   
Einnis never stopped and didn’t heed them, but ducked through the door to the separate room where he’d so far slept with his wife and daughter. He looked around the room. Empty spaces and marks in the floor bore silent witness to the removal of the many missing chests and boxes. All Arna’s clothes and possessions were gone, her silver and jewels, and not a single toy nor piece of little-Arna’s clothing had been left behind. The walls were bare, and the floor dirtied and empty.

Einnis leaned down over the secluded bench space where little-Arna had so far spent her nights, her little face always so calm and sweet in sleep. Einnis stroked the bare bench lightly with his hand, looking down at it in disbelief and wonder as he did so.  
   
He moved on, aimlessly touching the few remaining objects in the room. They were his, and well used – they had belonged to the farm as long as he’d lived.  
   
Eventually he opened the doors to the boxed-in bench where he and Arna had been sleeping every night as master and mistress of the farm. Their bed space was empty too. The fine duvets, pillows and linens had all been part of Arna’s dowry, and were gone. All that was left was the bare mattress – and a neatly folded piece of clothing, carefully and conspicuously placed in the middle of the bed.  
   
Einnis reached out slowly, picking the garment up and shaking it out, looking at it with bleak eyes.  
   
It was the tunic Arna had so lovingly and carefully been embroidering for him. His tunic still - but it had been altered and re-cut. The collar had been removed, the neckline had been extended and made wider, and the opening down the front had been cut longer and had ribbon laces attached. The cutting scissors had pulled the fabric slightly askew, and all the new edges had been hastily and shoddily hemmed with stitches that had been pulled too tight. There could nevertheless be no doubt about what change Arna had intended to make with her hurried and angry sewing effort.  
   
Einnis stood as if frozen, staring at the tunic, his mouth pulled open in the pained grimace of a wordless cry.  
   
He was holding a woman’s tunic.  
   
All at once the garment dropped from his hand as if he’d touched fire. He stepped back convulsively from the crumpled cloth on the floor, much the same as if he’d come upon a nest of vipers, all of them ready to strike.  
   
Turning away from Arna’s embroidered message he stumbled over to the other side of the cold hearth, sinking down on the bench, bending over his knees and retching violently, heaving up nothing but bitter green gall. He supported his upper body on his arms, briefly hiding his face in his shaking hands before staring ahead with dry eyes that seemed to see nothing. In this tormented position he remained, not moving for hours, sitting pale and stiff and cold in the shadowy fireless room.  
   
The people of the farm, upset and frightened, stayed out of sight and kept themselves quiet. An ominous brooding silence loomed over the ancient clan’s seat. The moon that rose late in the night was chased and many times overtaken by dark serrated clouds on its slow path across the skies. The valley below was cast in heavy gloom.  
   
Thus Einnis Elmarson sat in the darkness, head of his clan still, but master of depleted and weakened farms, bereft of brother, wife, daughter, and friends, alone in the depths of his misery. The future he had struggled and labored to create was unraveling, all his carefully nurtured pride and honor in shreds, slipping through the fingers of his suddenly powerless hands. With his mind’s eye he watched his world falling apart piece by piece all through the long and lonely night.  
 

\- x - 

   
Eoin rode south at an easy pace. The second day he overtook a group of travelers, a tradesman and his family on their way to Kaupang for the season, and asked leave to join their party. They welcomed him gladly, and so he had enjoyable company back to town.  
   
He would be staying at Torgeirr’s clan house now there was no woman to care for the woodcarver’s household in Kaupang. He rode up in front of Torgeirr’s late one afternoon, having briefly stopped by Gunnar’s house first to check that everything was in good order. In the evening he visited the ale hall, having his reason to want to catch up with Ragnvald, but the man was out of town on an errand for his master. Eoin had to wait three days before he returned.  
   
Once back in town, Ragnvald met Eoin with a smile and a happy greeting in the crowded and noisy hall. The men had to shout to hear each other, such was the ruckus that a group of the king’s soldiers was making.  
   
“I want to speak to you about something,” Eoin called. “I want to pick your brain about news from abroad that you’ve heard! It may take some time. We need a quieter place than this!”  
   
The gleam in Ragnvald’s eyes was unmistakable. “Well, I’m a good talker. My tongue is every bit as quick as my…. sword,” he hollered back with a grin. “Let’s meet by the clearing tomorrow!”  
   
Eoin hesitated for a moment, looking around briefly, but eventually nodded. The din in the hall was too loud for them to stay there. Soon thereafter they parted for the night.  
   
The next day Eoin started preparing some larger pieces of oak for carving, but his work was slow and his thoughts clearly on other matters. In the afternoon he laid all tools and wooden material aside and left Gunnar’s house to meet up with Ragnvald, putting his sword belt on out of old habit. As he passed the neighboring craftsmen’s houses he noticed the comb-maker’s wife standing outside her door, talking to a cloaked and well-armed stranger. He made nothing of it; all the craftsmen living along the track frequently had customers calling.  
   
Eoin walked at a brisk pace along the track that wound behind the old ale-hall, and onwards in among the trees. A twig snapping made him stop, looking back down the path. Someone was following along behind him, and seemingly doing so by stealth. One moment later three men appeared on the path, moving quickly, all of them armed.   
   
Before Eoin could react, the strangers noticed him standing there and stopped, all of them staring at him. The first of the three was the one Eoin had seen outside the comb-maker’s. The man now took a bold step forward, drawing his sword. The other two followed suit with a faint ring of steel.  
   
“Jaran the Irish?” the man queried. Eoin hesitated for a second and then nodded once, his whole body going tense. The man spoke up again with a small grin, though there was no humor in his coldly determined eyes. “We bring you greetings from Arna Mjodsdottir,” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Seid** – religious-based magic practised by a female shamans (volva). The seid rituals among other things seem to have involved certain elements and acts connected with female sexuality. For this reason it was illegal and considered shameful for a man to practice seid. 
> 
> **Ergi** – The passive, receiving part of homosexual acts, the most despised kind among the Norse, and the type that seid-men supposedly engaged in.
> 
>  **Lapps** – indigenous nomadic people in northern Scandinavia, which practiced shamanism as part of their culture till the 1700’s.
> 
>  **Roald Rettilbeine the seid-man** \- The tale of Ragnvald Rettilbeine who was burned by his own brother is included in Snorri’s Saga of the kings, the epic tale of Norway’s Viking kings, in the Saga of King Harald Fairhair, section 35. I have changed the killed man’s name to avoid confusion with an existing character in my story, but otherwise the tale is taken directly from the source material, including the fact that “Eirik won much praise” for having burnt his half-brother the seid-man alive. Eirik was nicknamed “Blood-axe” because of his exploits when raiding abroad and because he kept disposing of his various half-brothers who might otherwise have claimed the throne of Norway as inheritance – he killed 5 of them.
> 
>  **Ting** – regular gatherings of all the free men in a district. Attendance was required by law. The things were the main social happenings in the Norse communities, and not only men but their whole families traveled there. At the tings laws were made and recited, and disputes and grievances heard and settled. 
> 
> **Norse divorce** – There were many legal grounds for divorce in Norse society, both for women and men. A woman would certainly need some level of clan support before she went to the step of declaring divorce, since her marriage would have come about as a union between two clans. 
> 
> A woman had the legal right to say herself divorced from her husband if he was impotent or sexually inattentive, if he was physically violent to her, if he squandered their assets, if he didn’t financially support her and the children, if he insulted a member of her clan, if he engaged in homosexual acts, and if he was seen wearing women’s clothing. 
> 
> If the divorce was deemed to be the husband’s fault, the woman had the right to take her dowry out of the marriage, as well as the bridal gift and mundr (ie. the husband’s contribution of assets and properties to her upon their marriage), and all that she had inherited during the marriage. Economically such a divorce therefore would clearly harm the husband and his clan. If the husband was at fault the wife also had the right to their children. (If however a woman left her husband without sufficient legal grounds, he had the right to retain her assets and their children). 
> 
> Divorce was declared the way Arna does it in this fic – the woman said herself divorced in the presence of witnesses by the marriage bed and the house door, and thereafter took her assets and returned to her clan. Her male relatives would then later publicly declare the divorce at the ting. Any dispute concerning the divorce would also be heard and (hopefully) settled there – the alternative was settling it with swords. 
> 
> Judging from the sagas of clans and kings, divorce was not common, but neither was it rare, and the sagas include many examples of divorce, for a number of reasons. It seems clear that if one or both spouses found they were not compatible either “at board or in bed”, they did have divorce as a very real option to consider.


	28. Chapter 28

Eoin didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran. The clearing was very near – if only he could get there…  
   
The three men were following close behind, chasing him among the trees like hounds on the tail of a stag, running for all they were worth. The sound of their footsteps beating along the path behind him told Eoin that they were gaining on him. They did not waste breath yelling at him or calling to each other, they were efficiently intent only on one thing: Overtaking him and taking him down. With a frantic effort he threw himself out into the clearing, hurtling into the middle of the open space and turning around, panting as he pulled his sword and made ready to defend himself.  
   
“Look out! Look out!” he shouted.  
   
Ragnvald was sitting lazily on the log at the edge of the open space, his legs stretched out. He looked up in surprise. “What the…?”  
   
The first attacker was already in Eoin’s face, sword ready to strike. Without hesitation Ragnvald jumped up, pulled his own sword, and hurried to join the fray.  
   
Eoin met his assailant’s strike, the loud clang of steel meeting steel reverberating over the clearing as the two of them pushed up against each other, swords crossed at the hilts, their arms trembling with the effort to throw the other off balance. 

Eoin looked into the man’s eyes. They were cold and calculating, and met his unwaveringly. The attacker’s expression held neither malice nor hatred, just the firm determination get the job done quickly. The second attacker rushed at them and slashed at Eoin from behind, but Ragnvald got there just in time to deflect the thrust, throwing himself in between them and taking up position back to back with Eoin, yelling as he parried a sword thrust from the third man. The first one did not let himself lose focus, wasn’t distracted by the unexpected appearance of another enemy, but kept his bold eyes fixed on Eoin. He stepped back easily, disengaging from Eoin for a moment, feinting a low thrust against Eoin’s legs, and then spinning around, his sword forming a perfect arch towards Eoin’s neck in a strike as swift as an adder’s. Eoin ducked, his assailant missing him by a hair’s breath. Frantically he aimed at the warrior’s side, hitting home with his blade, but his near-loss of balance stole force from his thrust and the man’s chain mail deflected his strike. The man jumped aside easily and regained his balance in a heartbeat.  
   
The other two stepped back from Ragnvald, their swords at the ready, and regarded his practiced fighting stance with irritation rather than fear.  
   
“Don’t know who you are, but we have no quarrel with you,” the tallest of the two said loudly, his chain mail visible now that he had flung his cloak back, glittering at the spot where a ray of sunlight penetrating the tall spruces hit it. “Step aside and let us finish what we came for, or be warned – we’ll get you too!”  
   
“Go fuck yourselves, dogs!” Ragnvald hissed, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Eoin was holding his own. “We’ll soon see who gets who here!”  
   
He launched himself forward, his sword meeting the tallest man’s in mid-air, the both of them pushing up against each other, grunting with the force of it.  
   
Once more Eoin and his attacker were face to face, staring each other down, circling each other and punctuating their steps with angry thrusts, parries, kicks and feints. His assailant did not for a moment let up, and subjected Eoin to a barrage of rapid, forceful sword-moves that drove the less experienced man backwards step by step, further away from Ragnvald. Eoin had no time to even consider where the third man might be. Everything was a desperate blur of motion, a whirl of combat, brute force and jarring physical impact, grunts and yells, loud clangs, hard steel screeching against steel.  
   
Suddenly, as his sword was engaged hilt to hilt once more with his powerful assailant’s, out of the corner of his eye Eoin saw the sword of the third attacker slicing through the air, the man swinging at him purposefully, all his strength gathered into a mighty sweeping cut.  
   
Ragnvald was too far away to help, but he saw what was happening. “Jaran!” he screamed, swinging his sword against his opponent’s face, simultaneously kicking at his legs and swiping at them backhandedly with his sword once the man lost his balance for the briefest of moments.   
   
At the last second and with a desperation born of the instinct for self-preservation, Eoin threw himself to the side. Everything seemed to happen very slowly, as if he was moving through clear water. His body arched, nearly flying through the air in his frantic attempt to avoid the descending sword.  
   
He was too late. The sword cut into his side, going deep, slicing him open above his hip and nicking his abdomen as it finished its arch. The pain was imminent and surprisingly real, a fiendishly red-hot fire searing his flesh. Eoin landed on his back with a scream, the air knocked out of him and a red fog rising in his mind. The first attacker jumped after him with a shout of glee, sword held high and ready. He took his time now to aim, coldly preparing to finish off the wounded man on the ground once and for all.  
   
Ragnvald frantically kicked the legs out from under the man he himself was fighting, and spun around. For the briefest of moments the man flailed and didn’t manage to keep his guard completely up. Roaring like a berserker Ragnvald stabbed his sword point-first into his neck under the ear. The man fell like a slaughtered ram, blood spurting from his severed jugular.  
   
Ragnvald didn’t even look at him, but wrenched his sword free and turned back towards Eoin just as the sword aimed at the Irishman’s heart descended. With a wild cry Eoin rolled to the side, bucking and kicking furiously at the legs of the man standing above him, somehow managing to topple his would-be executioner. The assassin’s brutal sword thrust went wild, but once the man lost his footing its momentum made him crash forward like a tree felled in the forest. He went down just as Eoin’s sword arm reflexively came up in defense.  
   
The hired killer wore mail, but it wasn’t impenetrable and couldn’t withstand the force of a sword from below when he fell heavily right on top of it. The sharp steel bit through mail, tunic, skin and flesh, embedding itself deep in the man’s chest with a crunching, ripping sound. He landed hard, blood gushing out of his open mouth and splashing onto the ground next to Eoin’s head, a drawn-out wheezing moan bubbling from his punctured lungs, and his wide incredulous eyes glazing over in death. The heavy, leaden weight of his fully armed body nearly crushed Eoin.  
   
The third man screamed in anger and jumped forward to finish Eoin off where he now lay pinned, helpless and wounded under the large inert body of his fallen attacker, his sword impossible to dislodge. Eoin saw the sword descending and braced himself against the violent thrust aimed at his neck, instinctively tensing, his body pulling in on itself and his eyes squeezing shut. But the sharp steel never reached its target. Ragnvald launched himself at the man and pushed him out of the way, his shove forcing the assailant to his knees. With a shout and a wild blow of an angry fist against the man’s jaw Ragnvald knocked him out cold.   
   
All of a sudden there was silence in the clearing. An intense smell of blood and crushed grass hovered in the air. Three crumpled bodies lay still on the trampled and bloody battlefield. Panting as if he’d run many miles, Eoin convulsively heaved the corpse of the first attacker aside and sat up, pushing himself backwards, trying to move away from the blood and the grisly, gurgling death.  His frantic eyes met Ragnvald’s. For a moment there was no other sound than their gasping breaths.  
   
Eoin fell backwards with a moan, but still managed to drag himself on his elbows away from the dead man. He curled up on the grass, wheezing, and pressed both hands to his side, a steady trickle of crimson spilling out between his fingers.   
   
Ragnvald stepped over to him and looked down, concerned. “How bad is it? Let me see!”  
   
Wincing, Eoin slowly rolled onto his back on the ground, twisted at a tortured angle, a pained grimace stretching his mouth as he tried a joke. “It can’t possibly be as bad as it feels, for if so I’d be seeing a beautiful being with wings and a halo in front of me. But you look the same, as plain and ugly as ever!”  
   
Ragnvald shook his head as he kneeled down next to Eoin, clearly not understanding Eoin’s jest. “Wings?”    
   
He gripped the rent in Eoin’s blood-soaked tunic and tore it wide open. “Roll to the side a little… a little more…”  
   
He chewed worriedly on his lower lip as he briefly examined the wound, wiping a thoroughly blood-stained hand across his brows when he finished. “Well, what can I say, Irishman? Many a hapless foreign nit-wit has received far worse from his first fight to the death with a skilled Norse warrior. But I won’t fool you, it looks serious. We need to get you back to your house at once, and…  
   
“Torgeirr’s house,” Eoin whispered, his eyes closing. “That’s where I’m staying…”  
   
“Torgeirr Haraldson’s house it is, then,” Ragnvald agreed. He went over to the nearest dead warrior, cut a part of his cloak off with his sword, leaned down to pull the man’s sword-belt free, and brought it all back to Eoin. He balled the cloth into a tight wad and carefully slipped the belt under Eoin’s back, pressing the wad of cloth to the bleeding gash and buckling the belt tightly to hold it in place. “Keep that pressed as hard as you can to your wound, and lie still. I will go get help. Is there anyone who knows leech-craft at Torgeirr’s house?”  
   
Eoin opened his mouth, but no words came out. He had turned very pale.  
   
“Never mind,” Ragnvald said. “Just lie still. Breathe! And don’t faint just yet!”  
   
He hurried over to the man he’d knocked down, and studied him for a second. The man was still out cold. “Rope…” Ragnvald muttered, looking around, deciding that the laces round the unconscious man’s trouser legs were the only available means to tie his legs and wrists. Acting quickly, he tore the laces off, bound him, tightened the knots, and threw the man’s sword to the side and out of reach.  
   
With a last worried look in Eoin’s direction, Ragnvald sprinted towards the township.  
 

\- x - 

   
Eoin was aware of being jostled, and made a half-hearted sound of protest. He was being carried on a stretcher, and the swaying made the whole world twist and dance dizzyingly, the tree tops spinning around the sun, faster and faster.  
   
The next time he awoke he was lying stretched out on a bench. His side and abdomen were on fire, a pain more intense than anything he’d ever felt. A no-nonsense woman’s voice was speaking close to his ear.  
   
“He’s coming around. That salt helped. No hold him still for me, please – I need him to drink this….”  
   
The stench of boiled leeks hit Eoin’s nostrils and made him twitch, even more so when a beaker of foul-tasting onion soup was pressed to his lips, his head firmly supported by a skilled hand. “Drink it all up!” the woman’s voice commanded, and Eoin didn’t have the strength to object. He forced it down, one vile gulp at the time. Eventually the beaker was empty. The woman let him go, her gentle hands belying her gruff and exasperated words. “Men! Nothing but brawling and nonsense! Maiming and killing each other for no good reason!”  
   
Eoin looked up into her eyes, and she apparently understood the question in them. “You’ve got a deep long gash in your side, woodcarver, but it’s a clean one. I’ve rinsed it and closed it and stilled the blood. I’ve carved healing and blood-staunching runes for you, and placed the rune sticks all here by your side. Now before I do more and sew the wound shut I need to know whether your guts have been punctured. That’s what the leek soup is for. I put healing herbs in it too, and strong ones to dull the pain and make you sleep. You’ll feel better soon.”  
   
She stood up, patting his hand for a moment and looking down calmly. “Rest now. There’s health in sleep. I will have a man waking over you, and I won’t be far off myself. Loising or no, I know Torgeirr values you, and that’s enough for me. I’ll see you back on your feet, the Norns willing.”  
   
Eoin looked up at her. The mist hovering in front of his eyes made it hard to see, but he recognized her, knew he had seen her before. His mind was fuzzy and no name presented itself. She was an elderly woman and wore a fine dress with magnificent shoulder brooches, several glittering bead strings and some keys, though most of it was covered now by a blood-spattered homespun apron.

Her face was stiff and strict, but the eyes in her wrinkled face were lively. She noticed him looking at her. “I am Torgeirr’s mother’s sister. Ragnhild is my name. You saw me at Torgeirr and Sigrid’s wedding.” 

Eoin nodded, the briefest of movements, and let his eyes slide away from her face to the man standing in the background. “Ragnvald?” Eoin tried to lift his hand, but he his arm wouldn’t move. “Ragnvald!”  
   
“Yes?” Ragnvald said, stepping up to stand beside mistress Ragnhild, sending her a quick apologetic glance. “What is it?”  
   
“Cross,” Eoin muttered. “Cross?” His hand twitched on the blanket.  
   
Ragnvald looked at him uncomprehendingly, then slow realization dawned. “You want me to make your god’s sign over you?” he asked, uncertainly, once more glancing at Ragnhild.  
   
Eoin’s eyelids slowly closed, and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Yes…” he whispered. “Please!”  
   
Ragnvald hesitated for a moment. Then he leaned forward and made a crude cross sign in the air above Eoin’s prone body. Eoin’s eyes blinked open and he looked up, his features softening as he slid into herb-induced slumber. “Thank you…” he whispered, and fell asleep.  
 

\- x - 

   
There was no leek smell from the wound, and Ragnhild was pleased. She carefully tended it and cleaned it, making Eoin lie still on the bench, feeding him broth and dulling his pain and his mind with more herbs when he showed signs of becoming fretful and uneasy. The first week he drifted in and out of sleep, disoriented and weakened by blood loss, the burning pain in his side a new and unwelcome constant in his life.  
   
Around him life at Torgeirr’s town house continued as before. Ragnhild’s clan members and servants went about their everyday tasks and bedded down quietly on the benches along the walls every night. Eoin felt better for having people around. Ragnhild herself tended all her duties as mistress of the place, but nevertheless always seemed to be close by with her herbs and poultices, cooling cloths and refreshing drinks.  
   
As day followed day Eoin slowly felt better, and he became increasingly restless. Ragnhild admonished him sternly to keep still, and to let his wound heal. What she had learned from Ragnvald about the attack - the unfairness of it, and the uneven odds that Eoin had faced - made her even more intent on bringing the woodcarver back on his feet, sound and whole.  
   
Eoin himself told her no more than that he knew neither the three men nor their reason for attacking him, and Ragnhild listened, looking troubled. “My son-in-law will soon travel north on clan errands, and I will have him stop by Torgeirr’s farm to tell him of this unprovoked attack on one of his men,” she said. “Such things should not be taken lightly.”   
   
“There’s been no news from the north?” Eoin couldn’t help asking.  
   
“No, none,” Ragnhild replied. “Were you expecting any?”

Eoin wearily shook his head and closed his eyes.

Ragnhild saw to it that the servant occasionally watching over Eoin for her was armed. “No-one is coming in here to kill an injured man unchallenged while I am in charge,” she stated, matter-of-factly.  
   
Ragnvald stayed away, and not till two full weeks had passed did he return to see how Eoin was doing. He sat down on the bench by Eoin’s feet, looking him over critically.  
   
“Looks like you’re going to live, Irishman. What was that all about? Who did you piss off so sorely?”  
   
Eoin glanced around the hall, but it was the middle of a fine summer day, and no-one was hanging about inside in this weather. Even his minder had left as soon as Ragnvald showed up to sit with Eoin for a while.  
   
“Thank you for aiding me, Ragnvald,” Eoin said. “I would have been dead if you hadn’t. There’s this woman… she found out… her husband…”  
   
Ragnvald grimaced, looking annoyed and disappointed.  
   
Eoin’s hands moved over the blanket in agitation, a flash of fear crossing his face. “I worry now – I worry for him…”  
   
“Thor’s balls, man!” Ragnvald scoffed, hurt and dismay mingling with anger in his voice. “You have been far too careless if you’ve let some man’s wife and clan find out about it – whoever he is! The best you can do for him now is to leave him alone. If the little wife’s gone after him as well it will already be too late for you to interfere. Obviously she’s not without means if she could afford to pay those three. They knew what they were about.”  
   
Eoin didn’t respond at once. He lowered his eyes, drawing a tired hand across his pale face, pushing back emotions. “I didn’t know… that we’d been so careless. I can’t imagine how….”  
   
Ragnvald made an exasperated gesture, looking around the empty room. “Shhh…. shut up, don’t say more. There are ears everywhere. I don’t want to hear, and I don’t want to know!”  
   
Eoin drew a breath and changed the topic. “What… happened? Did the third one survive?”  
   
“He did. I asked the guards at the ale hall for help. Friends of mine, as you know. They helped carry you back here, and dragged the last attacker back to town too. We went to the godi. I wanted all to be above board. I need to be able to hold my head high, I am supposed to continue working here in town. I must protect my honor, for Thor’s sake! We poured water in the coward’s face, made him come around. The godi asked why he was trying to kill you. Tyr and Odin be thanked that he assured us he didn’t know, and I think I believed him. If he’d even suspected, he’d have had every reason to tell the godi about it, to turn the tables on you… on us.”  
   
Ragnvald frowned, looking unhappy, tapping his foot on the floor impatiently. “That was far too narrow a shave for the both of us! Well, the man wouldn’t say who had hired him either, but admitted they were paid silver up-front to go after you. Came from a place further north, wouldn’t say where exactly. I took legal responsibility for our having killed the two others, and the godi agreed we were attacked without provocation and were in our right to fend them off by any and all means. There will be no fines to pay, and the dead men’s clans have no legal right to go after us.”  
   
Ragnvald paused for a moment, thinking his tale through. “We asked what he wanted to do with the corpses of his two companions. He asked for help to get them properly buried, said he’d see to it that their clans were told. Seemed they’d been serving as guards together for a long time, and were close friends.”  
   
Ragnvald shrugged, his serious expression and worried eyes belying such an unconcerned gesture. “Who knows what this vengeful woman of yours will do next, when they didn’t succeed? But I don’t think she knows yet – I saw the last one in the ale hall just two days ago, drowning his last wits, such as they are. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just decides to join one of the raiding ships to get away from here. He lost face in managing to lose a battle of one against three.”  
   
“Two against three,” Eoin said, his voice low and sincere. “You being there saved my life. Thank you, Ragnvald.”  
   
Eoin lay back with a sigh, his eyelids sinking tiredly shut. They didn’t speak for a while. Eventually Eoin looked up again, plastered a small smile firmly across his face, and indicated the ale bowl by the hearth.  
   
“Bring that over here, won’t you, and let’s talk of happier things for a while! Now more than ever I am eager to hear all the news there is from abroad, Ragnvald, and all that you’ve heard from men who’ve been returning from over the far seas.”

\- x - 

The day after his return home Einnis exited his room in the early morning hours and came into the hall slowly, looking like a ghost – but acting like the ghost of the farm’s master. Without talking to anyone, he sat down in the High Seat and forced down the breakfast porridge and the strained sour milk that the servant woman put before him on the table, her eyes averted and her motions nervous. Then he called for Svein.  
   
That first day they went through every house together; barn, byre, stable, animal sheds and storage houses, in order to determine the situation. They spent the day carefully taking stock of what Arna had left behind, and what the farm would need replenished and replaced in order to keep going. Einnis spoke very little and said not a single word that did not have to do with the farm. Svein glanced at the master furtively now and then, but Einnis’s bleakly forbidding look stopped him from asking questions, offering his sympathy, or indeed from speaking up at all.  
   
As they walked about, Einnis on occasion would reach out to touch farm implements, his finger sliding along the ancient wood in the storage bins, the plough and sleighs and carved poles. It was as if he needed to imprint all of it on his mind, committing them to memory using as many of his senses as possible.  
   
Not until evening-time did Einnis walk over to the thrall’s house to see Freidis. His daughter’s wet-nurse Tekla was clearly frightened by his appearance, but handed him the little girl and sat down to the side, eying the two of them wordlessly, and hugging her son, a fine boy of close to two years.  
   
Einnis looked down into the contented little face of his daughter. She had grown in the short weeks since he saw her last, and was smiling up at him, obviously safe and happy and well cared for. Einnis held her and rocked her for a while, his face inscrutable, an expressionless mask. As he gave his little girl back to Tekla, he looked at the wall behind her and spoke in a rusty voice. “I can see that you continue to care well for my daughter. Thank you.”  
   
With that he turned and left, and went straight to bed in the bare and empty room where no-one stayed now except him, - him and the memories of those that once belonged there but who now were gone for good.  
   
Einnis didn’t speak to anyone except Svein. As the days wore on he looked almost as if he was sleep-walking around his own farm. His face was blank, his hollow eyes distant and dull; there was no spring to his steps, and no life in his movements. Nevertheless he wasted no time in deciding what to do and carrying the decisions through.  
   
The people at the farm, from Svein to the lowliest thrall, by and by calmed down. Despite his forbidding mood they felt comforted by Einnis’s handling of the crisis, reassured that life at the farm would go on in proper forms. Nevertheless there was much speculation, and many hushed whispers.

Servants and thralls alike argued back and forth over the possible reasons Arna might have had for divorcing her husband so abruptly. Arna had been a well liked and well respected mistress, capable and fair. For her to behave so decisively her husband had to have committed a truly heinous act. They debated whether he would go to the ting to contest the divorce or not, and a few secret bets were placed. Tongues set to wagging as soon as Einnis was out of sight.  
   
Several times when Einnis entered the hall or the yard, everyone present would suddenly fall silent and avert their eyes. Each time he squared his shoulders and walked on by, staring ahead, face pale. One time when loud laughter suddenly floated through the air from the cow-shed just as Einnis was crossing from the stable, he visibly winced and involuntarily ducked his head. But he set his jaw, straightened his back, and kept walking.  
   
The farm needed new pigs, freshly brewed ale and more milking cows. Milk provided the staple for most everyday meals at the farm - sour milk, skyr, cheeses, butter – and they couldn’t manage with the few animals Arna had left behind.  
   
Einnis went alone out into the woods behind the farm and dug up his hidden box of silver coins and broken jewelry. He had placed it there himself upon return from his summer of raiding, his purpose to ensure that no matter what misfortune the gods might send, he and his family would never be completely destitute. He sent Svein and several of the farm’s free-men down the valley with the silver to buy ale, cows and pigs at the neighboring farms.  
   
Einnis himself avoided contact with the neighbors and did not leave the farm, except that he rode off to Einstad, and there briefly spoke to his in-laws, Torgeirr’s sister Jorunn and her husband Ottar Kvite. What was said between those three no-one else knew for sure, and Einnis didn’t linger at his own smaller farm for more than a few hours. He brought home a flock of his sheep and goats, two good milking cows and a thrall from Einstad.  
   
They were in the important weeks now of high summer. Haying was about to begin, the customary late-summer blot would be next, and then it would be harvest-time, with more than enough work for every hand. The year’s cycle was running its even course, and so far all the signs were good. The grass in the outfields stood lush and green, the grain harvest looked promising, and animals in fields and sheds were fine and healthy, their young ones growing day by day. Luck seemed still to follow Einnis where his farm was concerned, and this appeased everyone there.  
   
Only Einnis seemed not to be thriving. It was obvious to all at the farm that he was not sleeping well, and he remained as taciturn as ever. No-one had seen him smile since his return from the south. They followed him with wary, concerned and curious eyes – the frequent talk about the divorce did not abate, but it was mixed now with worries over the master’s health and the clan’s future.  
   
One evening Einnis walked about on the farm, once more looking everything over, moving slowly and pensively as if in a world apart. He stopped as before at the thralls’ house to hold little Freidis for a spell, watched her crawl around on the floor, and spoke privately for a while with Tekla. Then he moved on to the stable. Making sure that he was alone, he noiselessly climbed up to feel along the top of the beam above his horse’s stall. He found what he was searching for; a raven’s feather, placed there several years ago when he moved down from Einstad, and long hidden from view.  
   
Carefully blowing on the feather to remove dust and debris from its smooth black silk, making it shimmer anew, he let the tip of his index finger slide along the shiny length. Emotion kindled and flared in his eyes for a moment as he looked at this secret and humble treasure. He hid it inside his tunic, tucked against his chest, and moved quietly on to the hall. There he collected a large bowl of ale.  
   
Einnis walked back out into the summer evening, across the yard and through the gate towards his ancestors’ barrows. The sun had dipped behind the mountains to the west, but the subdued day still held on to the light. Long bluish shadows were reaching out over the fields, stretching across the valley and off into the distance. A pleasant warm glow lingered in the calm air. Distant laughter could be heard from one of the fields, and there were some whinnies followed by the noise of horses trotting about in the paddock near the stable, but otherwise the evening was quiet and peaceful.  
   
The birds were no longer chirping and trilling in the copses and fields. They had finished courting and mating, and had raised their young. Song was a redundant luxury now in their short and hectic lives.  
   
Einnis stopped in front of Einnis Everwake’s barrow, and remained standing there, looking at the long green grasses and bright flowers covering it. The ancient mound looked the same as always, and its occupant seemed to be sleeping undisturbed. With a barely perceptible sigh Einnis bent down to carefully place the bowl of ale at the barrow’s base, righting himself slowly. After a brief moment he started speaking out loud, his low voice earnest.  
   
“My ancestors, I have disappointed you, and the clan. I have shamed you, and myself. I cannot fulfill my vow that I took when I ascended the High Seat. The farm has been weakened and the clan’s dignity lessened. I have lost honor that can never fully be restored. People look at me and laugh now, talk behind my back like they know.” He sighed again. “I am sorry that I have failed you. I have done my best to set things right. Now there is nothing left than I can do, except to leave, and to promise that one day soon I will die with honor. I will not give men further cause to jeer.”  
   
Einnis paused to draw a slightly shuddering breath, but his voice was firm when he continued. “I have given the clan two daughters. Please look after them and grant them long lives. Hopefully they will succeed where I failed. I ask you my ancestors to care for their luck and prosperity when I cannot do so – and in exchange I will give you this…“ His voice broke as he dipped his right hand into his tunic to fish out the raven’s feather, warm and slightly moist from lying against his bare skin. He glanced at it quickly, kissed it once, and placed it under the sacrificial ale bowl, bending his head and closing his eyes. “It is all I have to offer. Everything I can give. I hope that this is enough, and that you will require no further sacrifice from any other, and exact no vengeance on….”  
   
He stood for a little while longer, barely breathing, listening to the silence, to his own defeated heartbeat and the faint rush of evening breezes slipping unseen through the mounds’ grasses. His hand rose to clasp the small silver Thor’s hammer at his neck. Perhaps he was waiting for an answer or a sign, but there was none. One single whispered word escaped his lips like a prayer. “Please….”  
   
Eventually he turned and went back through the gate into the shadowed courtyard, and from then on straight to bed, closing the door to his dark and lonely room firmly behind himself.  
 

\- x - 

   
The next day Einnis gathered all the people of the farm, temporarily left the task of master to Svein and the task of mistress to the servant woman who had filled in for Arna since she left, thanked everyone for their service and loyalty to the clan through the years, assured them of the clan’s continuance and asked for their care for the farm and their patience till the new mistress could take over.  
   
“My daughter Arna is my heiress, and one day she will be the mistress of this farm. The clan’s future rests with her, and with her sister. Till then I am leaving you in the hands of my sister Sigrid and my brother-in-law Torgeirr Haraldson, who you all know to be resourceful, courageous, wise, and generous. They will decide what is to be done here and see to it that this farm is always properly kept and well defended. To them I will also entrust the fostering of my daughter Freidis.”

Einnis stood for a moment, gathering his thoughts, looking into the distance above everyone’s heads. His shoulders slumped, and he nodded. “May the powers be benevolent to you all, and the Norns grant you good fates.”  
   
Soon thereafter, when everyone was still standing about, too stunned to speak much or to dare voice objections or questions, Einnis rode out of the yard and away from the farm, staring straight ahead, his face carefully neutral, a strangely agonized relief in his eyes. He rode fully armed, and was followed by one of his armed free-men, Tekla, her common-law husband, their little son and Freidis.  
   
Einnis rode steadily southwards, leaving his old life and all its joys and sorrows, its duties and longings, its crushed hopes and broken promises behind. He did not once look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Norse leech-craft** – Men with abdominal wounds were made to drink onion soup in order to ascertain whether their intestines had been punctured. If so, the wound would smell of onions. There was leech-craft enough among the Vikings for men to survive quite serious wounds (and many men apparently suffered sword wounds in the course of their lives). My oft-trusted Laxdoela saga tells of a man named Aan, who was maimed in a battle to the point that his intestines were actually hanging out of his wound while he fought on, – he survived and made a full recovery.
> 
>  **Taking legal responsibility / paying fines** – even when acting in self-defense it was required that a man who killed or maimed someone should announce the matter publicly. If he did not, he might be deemed responsible for manslaughter. Fines were the main punishment under Norse laws. If vengeance beyond that was to be exacted, each clan had to arrange it for themselves.
> 
>  **Tyr** – Ancient god of war and battles. He had lost importance by the time of the Viking era. Tyr had only one hand, as the other was bitten off by the Fenris wolf, one of the monsters who will bring about the end of the world, Ragnarok. 
> 
> **Hidden cache of silver** – Several such finds of viking-time caches of jewelry (frequently broken), foreign coins and other valuables have been found buried or otherwise hidden away around Scandinavia. They are the main source of jewelry finds. It’s believed these caches were hidden when the owner had to flee or was attacked – or sometimes perhaps they were offerings to the gods and powers.
> 
>  **Skyr, and milk products** – Skyr is a dairy product that resembles strained yogurt, technically a very soft cheese, made from raw milk. It has always been popular in Iceland and a huge part of everyday consumption, but recently new variations with fruit flavoring etc. have been made available and become popular, also outside of Iceland. Cow milk and all the products made from milk were very important in the Norse cuisine, and at times a farm’s size was measured by how many cows it supported. The reconstructed farm at Stong, Iceland, which was originally abandoned after the eruption of the volcano Mt. Hekla in AD 1104, (and since then well-preserved under a layer of volcanic ash) had its own dairy wing and large vats for milk processing.


	29. Chapter 29

Sigrid came out into the yard herself to greet the little party of riders.  
   
“Einnis,” she said, looking up at her silent brother with a serious expression and worry in her eyes. “I had not expected to see you here…”  
   
She looked at the people in Einnis’s company, the two small children, the woman who wore simple thrall’s clothing, the two men.  
   
“I bid you all welcome,” she said formally, hiding her thoughts behind a neutrally gracious smile. She signaled to one of her servant women and the approaching stable thrall, telling them to show her brother’s companions to the servants’ quarters, and to stable their horses.  
   
Einnis got off his horse, loosened his small travel pack from its ties behind the saddle, and watched the horse being led away. Tekla curtsied nervously to Sigrid, and turned with Freidis held close in her arms to follow the others. Einnis spoke gruffly to Tekla’s departing back. “When you’ve had food and Freidis has been fed too, take her into the main hall, please”. She turned her head and nodded, then continued on her way.  
   
Sigrid laid her hand on Einnis’s arm. “Torgeirr is off at a neighbor’s, talking through some trading they’re planning, but he’ll be back tonight. Follow me, brother. You look as if you need something to fortify you.”  
   
They walked together to the bench by the High Seat, Sigrid briefly stopping to order ale and food brought for her brother. He sat down, looking straight ahead impassively, his face pale, hollow-eyed and disinterested.  
   
“Einnis, what has happened?” Sigrid asked, her voice low. “One week ago we heard tell that Arna had returned to her father’s, a divorced woman and a wealthy one. And since then we’ve heard several different tales as to why she left. It seemed obvious to me that there was no truth to any of it, but I didn’t know what to believe, and was hoping from a message from you. I hadn’t expected that you yourself would carry it.”  
   
Einnis shrugged, the merest little movement of his shoulders. He didn’t turn his head to meet her eyes. “It’s true. Arna has divorced me, and she took little-Arna when she left. She… had her reasons. I will say no more, even to you. I will not contest her. My honor is in ruins.” His whole body slumped and he bowed his head.  
   
Sigrid stared at him, aghast. She opened her mouth to speak, but held her peace when a servant stepped up to them with a bowl of ale and a platter of bread, meat and cheese for Einnis. Indicating that they wished to be left alone, Sigrid waited till the woman had retreated, and turned back to her brother.  
   
Einnis glanced at the food. “I am not hungry,” he said wearily.  
   
“Einnis, I do not understand this at all,” Sigrid said plainly. “If you do not want to talk to me, why have you come here?”  
   
Einnis didn’t respond, and after a moment Sigrid leaned back against the wall, patiently giving him time. She lifted the bowl to drink, and offered it to her brother, who hesitated but eventually accepted it. Einnis drank a deep strong draught, and then another. He closed his eyes. Sigrid waited.  
   
After a while movement caught her eye, and she turned from her brother to see a woman approaching the two of them, walking slowly and tentatively. Sigrid studied her and nodded.  
   
“Tekla, is it not? I recognize you from before I married. And now you’ve already got two children. What is it?”  
   
Tekla cast a nervous glance at Einnis. “I’ve only got one, mistress Sigrid. A fine boy. This little one is Freidis Einnisdottir. I am her wet-nurse.”  
   
Sigrid sat up, surprised. Einnis lifted his head.  
   
“Give Freidis to my sister, Tekla, and leave us. The child will be in good hands here, you need have no fears for her.”  
   
Tekla did as ordered, carefully and somewhat reluctantly placing the quiet and well-fed child in Sigrid’s arms. Sigrid looked down at the little girl with a smile in her eyes. “Well met, little kinswoman! What a fine girl she is, Einnis! She looks much like you, I’m thinking.”  
   
Einnis made a dismissive gesture. “I much rather hope she will be like you, Sigrid. This now is why I am here. I want to ask you and Torgeirr to be the legal caretakers of my farmholdings till my two daughters come of age, and to foster Freidis - treat her as if she were your own. I know she will have a good life here.”  
   
“Einnis!” Sigrid exclaimed, looking from him to the swaddled child in her lap and back. “Yes, of course we will happily foster Freidis. But have you truly thought this through? Would you live apart from both your daughters? Why do you need someone to take care of your properties?”  
   
“I cannot stay at the farm anymore, Sigrid,” Einnis said. “I am leaving. I’m leaving the country. I’m going away.”  
   
“To do what? Going where? Will you be going raiding?”  
   
“Don’t nag at me, sister! I’m tired of questions and curious talk. Enough! Leave me be!”  
   
Sigrid was silent. She sat holding her niece, rocking the child gently in her lap, looking down at the sleeping little face, her own expression softening in response. Eventually she spoke again, but now seemed oddly brief and even dismissive.  
   
“You may of course do as you please, Einnis, and neither Torgeirr nor I will meddle in your affairs beyond that which you ask us to do. I shall have to speak with Torgeirr and learn his mind, but I am certain he will agree to your request. Neither Torgeirr nor I can be two places at once, though. Therefore all I ask is that you remain here with us till we have settled and agreed how our ancestral farm is to be managed and protected on a day to day basis while you’re gone. We must find trustworthy caretakers. That much I think you owe both our ancestors, the memory of our parents, and your own two daughters.”  
   
Einnis shrugged, looking away from her, seeming for all the world to think that the conversation was tedious and of small interest to him. “As you wish, Sigrid. I am in no great hurry, but neither do I want to linger here, an idle houseguest for your servants to speculate about.”  
   
Sigrid said no more. Soon thereafter she had Tekla sent for to come get Freidis, and herself lighted Einnis to the room she had had prepared for him, and which he would have to himself, a rare luxury that he did not see fit to mention. 

Einnis walked slowly behind her, much like a sleepwalker, his face devoid of emotions. He told her goodnight in a distant voice, fell into bed fully dressed, and was soon sleeping heavily.  
   
That evening as Torgeirr returned, Sigrid waited till they could retire, and in the privacy of their bed they spoke long into the night. The next morning Torgeirr sent one of his most trusted men south with an urgent message. Sigrid too spoke with the man before he left, and husband and wife both stood watching him galloping out of the yard.  
   
“Are you sure this is wise?” Torgeirr asked.  
   
Sigrid shook her head slowly. “No. But I have to try. It is a gamble, and my last resort.”  
   
Torgeirr wordlessly pulled his wife close in a comforting embrace for a moment. When he eventually left her, Sigrid turned back to stare at the gate that their messenger had left by.  
   
“I wish you a safe journey, and more than that, a happy and speedy return!” she whispered. She remained standing in front of the main hall for a while, lost in thought, looking dignified as always in her farm mistress finery, though there was a sad air to her bearing.  
   
Torgeirr delayed his own long-planned journey to Kaupang till they’d had news from the south, and tried his best to curb his impatience. His considerable trading activities in town needed his attention, but he didn’t want to leave until this clan upheaval had been settled. Taking care of the clan’s farms was the most important task for any master or local lord, no matter the trading or raiding he otherwise spent his time on.  
   
As the days went by, Einnis had very little to say for himself. He rarely strayed from his room, slept a lot both by night and by day, ate sparely and answered Sigrid in surly monosyllables when she tried to pull him into conversation. Nevertheless she made an effort to visit him often, and brought Freidis along when she could, talking to the little girl and singing to her, a mixture of the happy and haunting songs she remembered from her own childhood.  
   
Both Torgeirr and Sigrid were delighted about their little foster-daughter, and so was Sverri. He proudly thought himself a bigger boy now he had a smaller sister to care for.  
 

\- x - 

   
Eoin’s wound was healing slowly and surely, and he was increasingly impatient with mistress Ragnhild’s adamant insistence that he stay near the house, that he not exert himself in any way, and that he should rest frequently on his bench. He did take a few short walks down to Gunnar’s house to see that everything was in order there. Wild horses could not have dragged out of him how tired those short walks made him. Yet he was getting stronger day by day, and chafed at the lack of tidings from the north.  
   
Ragnhild seemed to share his concern. Eoin overheard her talking to one of her young kinswomen. “I wonder very much why Torgeirr has not arrived. His ships are here, and the trading is brisk along the wharfs. He intended to come to town, but something must have happened. I hope we’ll soon have news.”  
   
Her son-in-law had not yet traveled north, having been delayed by the somewhat premature birth of his second daughter. Now mother and child were both doing reasonably well. He was once more planning his departure when news from the north finally arrived.  
   
Torgeirr’s messenger rode up while everyone was sitting at the evening meal, Eoin among the servants on the benches away from the hearth, and Ragnhild in the modest mistress’s high seat. The man quickly introduced himself and bowed to Ragnhild.  
   
“I carry messages from Torgeirr Haraldson to you, mistress, and I also carry an urgent message from Sigrid Elmarsdottir to Jaran the Irish woodcarver. Do you know where he is to be found?”  
   
Eoin was up from his bench and across the floor before anyone had the chance to respond. “I am Jaran,” he said hurriedly. “What message do you carry?”  
   
The man looked briefly to Ragnhild. As she nodded he turned to Eoin. “Sigrid Elmarsdottir sends word to you and bids you return to her husband’s clan seat in all haste if you may, on a matter most urgent. She bid me tell you she is speaking on behalf of her brother, who is now staying at their farm.”  
   
Eoin drew a breath. “Einnis Elmarson is alive and well?” he asked, speaking slowly and almost hesitantly now, his lashes sweeping down to hide his eyes.  
   
“He is certainly alive – I saw him myself as he rode up. Though much has been said and more hinted at about the reasons for his divorce, no-one seems to know anything for sure. It has not yet led to feuding with Mjod, as far as I know.”  
   
“Divorce?” Ragnhild said sharply, casting a glance at the many curious faces turned their way. “Come outside with me, the both of you. This is better spoken of in private.”  
   
Though Eoin’s face had looked pale ever since his grave injury, now he looked worse. He followed without a word.  
   
As soon as they were out of earshot the man took up his tale, giving them further details about Einnis and Arna’s divorce, though he knew very little for sure and most seemed to be hearsay. Nevertheless his message from Torgeirr was that the Elmarson farm was in immediate need of a capable and strong mistress to manage the considerable household now that Arna was gone. They would therefore like Ragnhild to consider once more taking over that responsibility.  
   
Eoin listened in silence, his heart beating so hard and fast that the sound of pounding was in his ears. He was relieved when Ragnhild readily accepted Torgeirr’s request. She was used to being the mistress of a large farm, and longed to use her skills in a household larger than the small clan town house as a mere helper to her daughter. Eoin for his part made it clear that he would most willingly do as Sigrid requested, and as quickly as could be arranged. They would both be riding north.  
 

\- x - 

   
Eoin would have given everything to have been able to fly north like a raven. Instead he had to plod north on an old, trusty woman’s horse that could not be startled, and which would not take off even if the Fenris wolf was to appear by its side, red maws gaping. Eoin’s barely healed wound and his impaired health would not support brisk riding, Ragnhild had informed him tersely. If he wanted to kill himself, there were easier ways, she had said, her eyes going meaningfully to the rack of swords by the door. She most certainly wouldn’t be riding along for the thrill of seeing him fall dead from his horse when his wound broke open.  
   
And so they both rode north at an easy and slow pace, accompanied by Ragnhild’s son-in-law, Torgeirr’s messenger, and one additional man-at-arms that Ragnhild insisted on.  
   
His companions had scarce cheer from Eoin on the road. He spoke little to them and then only distractedly, his thoughts constantly racing ahead, wondering what had compelled Sigrid to send for him, pondering what he’d find at journey’s end – happiness or despair. It seemed to him that they were crawling along at a slug’s pace, and day by day his sense of urgency grew, and his impatience, worry and longing likewise.  
   
When they finally arrived at their destination, Eoin was weary to the bone. The long journey and tense worrying had taxed his already diminished strength, and he nearly fell from his horse, pale and drawn.  
   
Sigrid, who had come outside to greet them, took one look at him and ordered him first of all to get a good night’s rest. “I am grateful that you heeded my wish and came back to us, Jaran, but it will do no-one any good if you collapse on my doorstep. My brother Einnis is sleeping. You should do the same. Let us hope tomorrow will bring good counsel and new hope.”  
   
Despite the protest that rose from the very core of his being, Eoin admitted to himself that she was right. He smiled wanly and gratefully to Muirenn, who had come into the yard to see him arrive, and let her help him to a sleeping bench that had been prepared. After having spoken briefly with her in Gaelic he bent his head in a fervent evening prayer, asking for strength and grace. Then he fell into deep, healing sleep, lost in the calm assurance of what was surely meant to be.  
   
And so, at long last, the next morning Eoin stepped over the threshold to Einnis’s room. Sigrid had spoken to him briefly while she herself led him to her brother, fixing him with a nearly pleading gaze. She had called him Einnis’s friend, but told him little more than that she had sent for him in the hope that he might be able to cheer her troubled brother, describing Einnis’s state of mind as briefly and honestly as possible.  
   
Now Eoin stood quietly right inside the dim room, his every sense alert, his eyes unerringly seeking out the still form on the bench in the corner, relief and tenderness flooding his heart and voice now he’d reached his goal in time.  
   
“Einnis…. Einnis, can you hear me?”  
   
A shudder went through Einnis from top to toe, and his arm came up to protect his eyes.  
   
“No!” he said, and turned over on the bench, his back to the room and the man standing there.  
   
Undeterred, Eoin slowly stepped closer. “Einnis. You know who it is. Are you displeased? Won’t you look at me?”  
   
“Go away! Eoin, I can’t…. I won’t… Not again…I’m done with all this!”  
   
Eoin stepped right up and sat down on the edge of the bench, a mere inch from touching Einnis.   
   
“I’m not going away,” he said. “Einnis, are you ill?”  
   
Einnis didn’t respond. His whole body hunched in on itself, tense and still, like a frightened hedgehog bristling with the desperate desire to be left alone. Eoin was not fazed. He looked down at Einnis and tried to get his breath and his thoughts and his own wildly thumping heart under control before he spoke again.  
   
“I’m not going anywhere. You might as well look at me.” Carefully he placed a hand on Einnis’s right shoulder, squeezing it in a gentle grip.  “Einnis, I’m right here.”  
   
Suddenly all resistance seemed to leave Einnis, and he slumped, dull and deflated. With great effort he turned back over on the bench, sat up and at last looked Eoin in the eye.  
   
“Eoin,” he whispered, barely audible. He drew a breath. “Eoin, you should not be here, so near me. If anyone sees, it is dangerous,” he entreated in a rusty, unused voice.  
   
Eoin couldn’t help laughing, a strangely exuberant sound challenging the glum mood and dense air in the dim and fire-less room. “Oh, I know that well enough, never fear. But dire dangers may be lurking anywhere. I’d rather face them next to you. We are stronger together.”  
   
He reached out to take Einnis’s limp hands in his own, his thumbs rubbing the chill skin. “Are you ill, Einnis?” he asked once more.  
   
Einnis’ hands remained slack in his. “No. No, I’m not ill, I’m just tired.” His shoulders drooped and his voice was very small. “Arna has divorced me. She’s taken little-Arna away! And all her goods are gone, and much of mine. I’ve been shamed before the whole world, but I can do nothing about it unless I want to face even worse dishonor.”  
   
Einnis looked up in sudden agony, his eyes tormented. “My life is over, having lost all that I strived so hard and long to build! My honor is gone, and my clan in ruins. The only thing that could be worse…. The only thing…” He drew a breath, the brief fire dying out of him like a spark snuffed by a storm blast. “… but you’re alive, thank the Norns,” he concluded bleakly.  
   
“And so are you, despite everything,” Eoin whispered, squeezing Einnis’s hands encouragingly. But Einnis only shook his head mutely, looking away.  
   
Eoin held on. “I am very sorry about little-Arna, Einnis. I know how much you love her. I know how much it must hurt. I wish I could change it so she could be with you… but I can’t. Yet your other little daughter is right here, and healthy and strong from what Muirenn tells me, and Sigrid and Torgeirr are here too. Your clan still cares for you. It is not in ruins. Why do you think Sigrid sent for me? More than anything she wants you to live. She doesn’t want you to deliberately throw your life away in some senseless battle abroad.”  
   
Einnis looked back at Eoin, his eyes going wide. “Sigrid sent for you? Why…why would she…? Why you? Oh, Thor, no!”  
   
The panic and fear in his eyes were plain to see, and Eoin firmed his hold on Einnis’s nervous hands. “Einnis, your sister wants only the best for you. It’s long since she realized we share a close friendship. Did you believe she would just put the valuable gift of the golden cross out of her mind? Do you doubt her sincerity?”  
   
Einnis hook his head slowly, calming down. “No, I would trust Sigrid more than anyone, except you,” he said, his voice low. “I would trust her with my life. I value her opinion. I’ve always been closer to her than to anyone else in my family. That’s why I know… I know there is one thing she would not ever be able to forgive, or forget. She is proud, and she trusts me to act with honor in all things. I have always wanted to live up to that, I have tried and tried, but… I failed.”  
   
Eoin dropped Einnis’s hands and looked him in the eye.  
   
“So you could defend it to yourself to meet me in secret,” he said sharply, “but as soon as anyone found out, like your wife obviously did, then suddenly all your honor has been lost, and your dignity is shattered, and your will to live with it? Is that how you value me, and what we share?”  
   
Einnis didn’t rise to take the bait, but single-mindedly stayed in the same rut as before, avoiding Eoin’s eyes. “Yes. It is shameful, and nothing you can say or do will change that, Eoin. We shouldn’t…. I shouldn’t be like this. I have lost my pride. Honor lies in acting so that others speak well of you while you live, and after you’ve died. Now they will all jeer in disgust when they speak of me – but if I seek death courageously in battle, they will at least say I died with honor. That is all there is left now.”

Eoin sighed, a soft exasperated exhalation, laced with distress.  
   
“Einnis, if you die so needlessly… imagine how it would grieve Sigrid and Torgeirr and your daughters. Imagine what it would do to me!”  
   
Einnis shook his head obstinately. “It would be worse for all if I stayed on here, a living, breathing joke for men to point at and spite and mock, a burden and a shame to my clan. The best I can do for my family is to leave and never come back.”  
   
He pointed with a shaking hand to his little roll of belongings by the bench. “Look in there – look to see what scorn we’re facing…”  
   
Eoin sent him a searching glance, but rose and picked up the bundle. He opened it and looked through the few rolled-up pieces of clothing within, then shook his head. “There is nothing unusual here, Einnis. What am I looking for?”  
   
“The tunic, the blue tunic,” Einnis whispered brokenly.  
   
Eoin turned back and lifted the blue garment slowly. He unrolled it and stared at it for a moment it in silence. “Your wife did this?” he asked. His fingers slid across the wide and hastily hemmed neckline, and he tugged briefly at one of the ribbons. “She is very angry, hurt and bitter. I knew that. But Einnis, she is the only one who truly has reason to behave this way, and I think she’s done her worst by now!”  
   
Einnis winced as he watched Eoin touch the accusing garment. “I brought it along as a reminder,” he said. “I wanted to make sure I never wavered in my intent.”  
   
“So this is the cross you intended to carry on your back up the lonely road to your very own Calvary,” Eoin mused, mostly to himself, ignoring Einnis’s obvious incomprehension. He dropped the tunic heedlessly on the floor and reached for his own bundle, the one he’d carried into the room slung over his shoulder.  
   
“Einnis, I brought along a reminder too.” Opening the canvas he carefully brought forth another blue garment, shaking it out in front of Einnis.  
   
“Do you recognize this, Einnis Eldhug? I kept it as a memory and a pledge during those long years when I didn’t know whether I’d ever see you again. It helped me keep hope alive. Do you remember our nights together in the snowy woods? When the darkness pressed in and the wind was icy outside, but the hearth fire crackled? We kept each other close and warm and contented under the furs and your fine, blue cloak. This cloak.”  
   
Einnis looked at the blue cloth in wonder, reaching out to touch it with a trembling hand. “I remember it all, Eoin. How could I ever forget? To think you’ve kept it and cared for it all this time! I did think once that you had taken it, but…“ His eyes skittered away. “Now it makes no difference.”  
   
“How can you say that, Einnis? How can you just shrug me – us - off?”  
   
Einnis was silent, looking away obstinately, his jaws firmly set and his fists clenched. Eoin once more sat down next to him, placing the blue cloak over their knees and leaning against Einnis’s side silently, closing his eyes, exhaling deeply. Einnis still made no move and sat as if carved in stone.  
   
After some time, Eoin turned his head to nuzzle Einnis’s cheek with a soft little murmur. For a few seconds Einnis seemed to yield, letting his frost thaw, melting into Eoin, turning his head as if to welcome those warm lips with his own. Then with a violent wrench he pulled back, pushing Eoin away, banked emotion suddenly flaring. Eoin briefly pressed both hands to his side with a pained gasp, but he said nothing.  
   
“No!” Einnis groaned. “I won’t.! I can’t… I’ve promised myself…..No more! It’s unmanly, a joke, a shame! And as for you, Eoin…” His voice rose in intensity and desperation. “If it wasn’t for you, if it wasn’t for the way you make me feel, the way you make me behave, none of this would have happened! It’s your fault that I am like this, that I’ve lost everything and am less than a man, a nobody who belongs nowhere!”  
   
Eoin shot to his feet. “And do you recall whose fault it is that I am here in this country at all, proud warrior?” he cried. 

Immediately he drew a deep breath, struggling to calm himself. “You are somebody to me, Einnis,” he continued in a gentler voice, “and you belong right here at my side. Don’t belittle yourself. I won’t listen to such miserable self-pity.”  
   
Eoin turned to pace back and forth in front of the cold hearth, settling himself and letting the sting in his side recede before returning to sit down at Einnis’s side once more. “What are you telling me, Einnis? Have you had a change of heart? Only a month ago you said you would never regret having met me and held me. Is your word worth so little, are you that inconstant, that weak? Was your heart truly wrought on a wildly spinning wheel?”  
   
“Stop it, Eoin! You know it isn’t so! But fate willed it. We can never be together, and my life lies in ruins.”  
   
Eoin shook his head, exasperated. “Your life is in ruins? Then what about mine, Einnis? Do you recall that I was torn away from everything that mattered in my life, and that every last little thing that I had was taken from me – even my freedom? I never gave up. I always believed everything happened for a reason – that we were meant to be together. I don’t want to listen to you telling me no way and never. While waiting for you I have rebuilt my life. Now it’s your turn.”   
   
Einnis stared at him, his face crumpling under the impact of Eoin’s harsh truths.  
   
Eoin lowered his voice, speaking sincerely and calmly. “I know it will be hard, Einnis. I know. But going on as before is not a choice. Arna has seen to that. You can either throw your life away needlessly while clinging to your empty pride, or choose to be with me. What will it be?”  
   
“I can’t – I can’t take this any more.” Einnis’s face contorted and he leaned forward, hiding it in his shaking hands.  
   
Eoin sighed, and placed a hand lightly on Einnis, once more moving closer, rubbing slow, gentle circles on the shaking back. On a sudden impulse he reached out for the treasured blue cloak. He draped it across Einnis’s shoulders, wrapping him in its fine fabric, taking care to position it properly. “It still fits you,” he said quietly.  
   
Einnis didn’t resist and didn’t reply, bereft of will, in the grip of indecision and despair.  
   
Eoin nudged the nearest blue shoulder. “Einnis, I know how strongly you believe in fate. Have you never considered that surely it was fate that brought us together? Don’t you think fate has had a hand in all that’s happened since, in removing much that has kept us apart?”  
   
Einnis laughed, a snorting, gulping sound spilling out between his fingers. “Fate! Yes, fate has certainly played me for a fool - I find myself exactly where Ketil was! He spoke of fate…. his last words….”  
   
“What did he say?” Eoin whispered.  
   
Einnis hesitated, but eventually forced the words out. “Fate… fate brought me love and dishonor. The joke’s on me. That’s what he said. Now I can say the same.” He laughed, a hollow, bleak sound, so heavy it fell flat the moment it left his lips.  
   
Eoin drew a sharp breath at the one unexpected and most welcome word. “Love?” He reached forward, his fingers cupping Einnis’s chin, turning and lifting his head. Their eyes met. Beneath the pain and despair and confusion, beyond the bewilderment and fear, another emotion shone deep in Einnis’s eyes, astounded at its own passionate and irrepressible existence. Eoin smiled, joy and relief making his eyes glow.  
   
“I love you too, Einnis,” he said gently. “I love you, and I see only honor in that.”  
   
Einnis sighed. They sat for a moment in silence.  
   
Eventually Eoin spoke up again. “While there’s life, there’s hope. I refuse to believe that there is no way forward for us, Einnis. I have recently heard tell of a land to the northwest, a land where there are no people, wide expanses open for the taking. If we moved there, we could build our own little farm. We’d be our own masters.”  
Einnis sat up and stared at him, ripped from struggling thoughts by this unexpected statement, looking incredulous yet curious in spite of himself.  
   
“A completely new land? Eoin…. You are dreaming. Wishful thinking will not change anything.”  
   
Eoin was animated now, pressing the advantage. “It’s true! Listen, Einnis - I’ve heard tell of one Floki Vilgerdsson. He was sailing the seas north of Britain, looking for new land to settle, and he used ravens to show him the way. Ravens – isn’t that the best of omens? One of his birds flew northwards. He followed in his ship, and the raven – our bird, Einnis – did lead him to a large land, vast expanses, without people. He settled there several winters ago, but the cattle he had brought did not survive. Yet he stayed on for another year, and now he’s planning to return there with more men and new animals. The tale he tells is that if only you plan for it properly, it’s possible to live there, and to live well. There’s lots of fish and seals in the fjords, birds everywhere, and green grassy fields and slopes where sheep will thrive. There’s land for the taking – we could build a new life there, with no-one to speak to us of shame and of lost honor.”

Eoin drew a breath, looking around for the sour milk. “By the good Lord and his angels and saints, convincing you is very thirsty work, Einnis!” He dipped the ladle into the milk bucket and drank in long, eager gulps, an enticing white border showing along the edge of his upper lip when he turned back to Einnis, expectant.

Einnis sat still, shaking his head. “On this wild tale you’d dare to stake a future? You’re mad, Irishman! Your god has stolen your last wits!”  
   
Eoin grinned a little. “Well, your plan is far worse, such as it is! I forgot to tell you; the land – Floki gave it a name. In the winter there was much snow, there are tall mountains, it was cold, and ice floes floated in the fjords, so he named it Iceland. But from what I’m hearing, if he’d named it in summer he might just as well have called it Greenland.”  
   
“Iceland!” Einnis snorted. ”Sounds just like a description of Helheim, if you ask me: Cold and dark and forbidding, northwards and downwards.”  
   
Eoin moved closer, placed a hand on Einnis’s thigh and squeezed, smiling into his eyes. “Remember our winter at Einstad. Do you know anyone better suited to thriving during cold winters than the two of us? We’ll find many ways to keep each other warm,” he murmured, honey in his voice, leaning forward to press his warm lips longingly to Einnis’s unresisting and increasingly receptive ones, leaving a taste of milk behind when he eventually pulled away. “Mm-hmm. That’s more like it!”  
   
He sat back, going serious. “I am not fooling myself, Einnis. It will be a tough life. By all accounts the land is much more barren than here, and it will take much planning and effort, and hard work when we get there. But I am not afraid of hard work, and neither are you. The important thing is that we build a new life together.”  
   
For a moment Einnis’s eyes lit up with interest, the eager spirit of his time spent building Einstad inhabiting his face. He lost the far-off, dreary expression as he considered Eoin’s words. Then he pulled back, his glance once more going dull and faintly hostile. “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you? Eoin the explorer! Conqueror of worlds! I suppose despite the snow and ice and barren landscapes, we’ll find mead burbling in the streams, and cooked little piglets walking up to be eaten?”  
   
Eoin sighed, increasingly exhausted from the long and intense battle of minds. But the stakes were too high for him to call it quits. Their future, their love and their very lives depended on him not giving up. “Einnis, let me have serious objections, or I’ll believe that you agree there are none. If so, I tell you plainly that…”  
   
“Eoin,” Einnis said quietly, overriding him. “Eoin, it isn’t possible. Even if…. Even if we agreed to try for such a thing, we’d need to get a ship and crew, and all the supplies required to build a farm and stock it. Animals, all kinds of equipment, wood for the building, grain and foodstuffs… we couldn’t do it alone. We’d need others there. Do you know much about fishing with nets? Can you plough a field? Would you plan for us to milk our own cows and make the cheese and bake the bread? Even if you didn’t object to playing a woman by day, you’d have to learn first. And we’d have to go in spring, for we’d surely need a full summer to get settled. We’d have to wait nearly a year!”  
   
Eoin smiled, a small exhausted grin of dawning triumph. “Have you ever found that I lack patience and determination, Einnis? I’ve already waited for you years and years! We’ll find solutions. We’ll make it work. Just keep right on planning!”  
   
“My point is, Eoin, all this would take not only silver, but time. Time, while people would see us together. More men would hear how my wife divorced me. They would realize the truth about us. We would be horribly killed, just like Roald the seid-man.”  
   
Einnis looked down, avoiding Eoin’s eyes, biting his lip. “And… and Eoin, I don’t mind dying myself. In fact, I was determined to…. But I want you to live. It’s… it’s one of the reasons I’m leaving. I can’t bear the thought of someone tormenting you, wounding you, killing you. I want you to live, just as if you’d never met me.”  
   
“It’s too late for that, Einnis, and you know it. Those are empty words! I can never go back to being who I once was.” Eoin hesitated, uncertain about the wisdom of his next move, but in the end charging ahead. He lifted his tunic and turned his side to Einnis, displaying the long, ugly scar, swollen and angrily red against sickly-pale skin.  
   
“Three men came after me with swords, carrying greetings from your wife. Two of them died. I live. I tell you it is too late, Einnis – I will not be safe even if you leave. We’ll be stronger together.”  
   
“Eoin!” Einnis whispered aghast, reaching forward to feel the ugly scar with his fingertips. “Arna did this? But she promised! I mean, she left word that her father had advised her to not harm anyone else….oh.”  
   
He sat back, speechless, his eyes no longer emotionless.  
   
“Guess it’s fair to assume she didn’t agree with her father, then?” Eoin said, his lips quirking up in a wry little grin. “I managed to fight Arna’s warriors off with the help of a friend. I am not helpless, Einnis. I am not that meek monk anymore who didn’t know one end of a sword from the other when your band of marauders came to haul me away.”  
   
Eoin sighed. “The only vengeance I want against Arna Mjodsdottir and all these shadow-warriors you keep threatening me with, is for us to make a life and live it well despite the danger. I want to laugh in the face of their disdain and contempt, and to live with you every night, every day, at board and in bed. I know the risk is real, and I’ve felt it sear my flesh, but I refuse to let them win!”  
   
He gripped Einnis’s arm, passionate persuasion in his every word as he continued. “If we go to build a farm on Iceland, we’ll be safe from them, and we’ll be together. That’s what I want and what I long for. And I know you want it too.”  
   
Einnis leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “I am tired, Eoin. Can’t you let me be?” he muttered. “We would be killed before we got there, if the land even exists. An ignoble, shameful death. I couldn’t bear such a dishonorable end for us.”  
   
Eoin held himself back, studying Einnis, gauging his mood, noting the lack of vehemence. The Norseman was repeating himself by rote, but all conviction had drained from his oft-repeated words about honor and shame. The banked fire within had been fed and fanned, and was close to bursting into strong, eager flames.  
   
Drawing a deep breath, Eoin leaned forward, gripping Einnis’s shoulders and shaking him, forcing him to meet his eyes.  
   
“You’re a warrior and have been so from the day we met, Einnis. You are courageous. You’re skilled with the sword. Tell me you are willing to fight and risk death for riches or for honor’s sake, but not when it comes to the most important thing in your life – in our lives? Tell me we are not worth fighting for? Are you that afraid?”    
   
Eoin was right in Einnis’s face, hurling the words at him. “Tell me you’ve not got the guts, tell me you’re too weak and cowardly to make a life with me. Say it out loud, you’re too scared – say it, or I won’t believe you!”  
   
Einnis didn’t resist, but kept his eyes fixed on Eoin’s, the last embattled remnants of anger, fear and denial slowly giving way to something else, a budding acceptance, an overwhelming trust. Then he turned his head to the side, breaking eye contact and closing his eyes with a small, tender smile.  
   
“I know one thing is true, Eoin: No man can fly his fate. I will not try anymore to flee from mine. I will face it and welcome it.”  
   
“Tell me, Einnis,” Eoin said, his voice strong and insistent. “What then is your fate?”  
   
Einnis turned to meet his eyes, and the answer was there, plain as day, calm as the skies when a storm has passed, bright as the sunny dawn of a new beginning. He opened his arms and pulled Eoin in, crushing him against his chest, Eoin holding him just as hard. They pushed closer, breathing each other in, their lips meeting to seal the pact, each tasting everything that yet went unsaid on the other’s tongue. Relieved, depleted, exhausted, joyful, they held each other tight, rocking each other gently, and didn’t let go for the longest time. 

Eoin had closed his eyes. It seemed to him that the dim little room’s darkened timber walls fell away and disappeared. He sensed all of nature moving around the two of them in celebration. The wind whooped lustily among tall trees, stirring every branch to make lush green leaves wave with delight. Larks trilled happily above, swift clouds and bright sunlight danced together across wide open skies, and swallows swooped jubilantly through the air.  
   
Eventually Einnis pulled back to breathe, his warm moist breath tickling the hair by Eoin’s ear as he spoke his belated reply to Eoin’s question, plain confirmation of the eloquent response his body had already made.  
   
“You, Eoin,” he said clearly. “You are my fate. And so help me all gods and goddesses, but I never, never will wish for any other, come what may. I’m in this now with you till the end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Vikings and depression** – Vikings could suffer depression too. The Norse clan sagas contain at least one famous example. Eigil’s Saga is the saga of famed Icelandic chieftain Eigil Skallagrimson (ca. AD 910 – 990) who by all accounts epitomized the Viking male: Violent, passionate in love and in hate and in defending his property and honor, he was among the greatest Norse bards, and a hot-tempered and fierce warrior. Yet when his beloved son drowned, Eigil went to bed and refused to eat and drink. He genuinely lost the will to live. Eventually his wife in desperation sent for their daughter, and she in turn tricked her father into drinking some milk, and thereafter managed to convince him that he should at least delay dying till he’d written a poem in remembrance of his dead son. In this way Eigil’s depression was lifted, his grief was re-focused into writing poetry, and he got back up on his feet. 
> 
> **The Fenris wolf** – one of the monsters that will contribute to the end of the world, Ragnarok. Till that time the monstrous wolf is safely bound with a magical chain. The wolf is Loki’s son, and Hel’s brother. 
> 
> **Fostering of children** – this was a very common practice among the Norse. Respected people would take over the care of another couple’s child, often from infancy or age 3. It was considered an honor that well-to-do and well respected people accepted to foster someone’s child. The practice is frequently mentioned in the sagas. It served to tie clans together, and the bond between foster child and foster parents (and -siblings) was considered to frequently be exceptionally strong. As a consequence of this practice it was common that children would grow up away from their living parents. 
> 
> **Floki Vilgerdsson and the first settlement of Iceland** – The story of Floki’s discovery of Iceland by the use of ravens and the other details that Eoin relates come from the Icelandic Landnamabook, (the saga of the taking of land.) In addition there is Islendinga Book (The saga of the Icelanders). Both these ancient sagas outline the Norse settlement of Iceland in the late 800’s in considerable detail. 
> 
> The first real settler in Iceland according to history was the Norwegian Ingolfur Arnason, who built a farm in AD 874. During the next hundred years or so all of Iceland was settled by the Norse, many of whom left Norway because they were on the losing side of the process of unification under one king’s rule that had just been concluded. 
> 
> Ingolfur and his brother went from Norway to Iceland by way of Ireland to steal away people as thralls to work for them clearing their farms in Iceland. There are various indications that the very first settlers – or at least visitors - to Iceland actually were Irish Monks. Others with Irish connections followed. The township of Akranes in Iceland has a “Irish Days” festival in the summer, commemorating the early Irish settlers in Iceland. 
> 
> The late 800’s were considerable Norse expansion years, and Vikings settled Iceland, Greenland, various parts of the British Isles, parts or Russia and more - they even tried to build permanent settlements in Newfoundland, but were driven off by Native Americans. 
> 
> **Iceland vs. Greenland** – it’s interesting to note that the first Norse visitors to Iceland focused on the land’s unwelcoming and wintry aspects in their naming of the new-found island, while the later and first Norse settler on Greenland, Eirik the Red, deliberately gave that newly discovered land a “good name” that he believed would make other people want to settle there. Eirik had the knack of marketing. The Norse settlements in Greenland buckled under after several hundred years’ existence, leaving only some few church and farm ruins behind, but Iceland kept going and preserves much of the Norse heritage today. 
> 
> **“Heart shaped on a whirling wheel”** – a quote from Havamal, which describes the inconstancy of women in love this way. 
> 
> **Helheim** – “Hel’s home”, the main realm of death in Norse mythology, ruled by Loki’s daughter Hel. The location of the place was “northwards and downwards” and the various physical aspects of the realm and the road leading there as described in the myths were frightening and unwelcoming to say the least, though it wasn’t by any means an equivalent of the Christian “hell”. 
> 
> **Women’s chores** – milking and grinding grain as well as other tasks related to food preservation and preparation was strictly considered to be women’s chores, to the degree that it was unheard of for a man to put his hand to such tasks.


	30. Chapter 30

Eoin was up on the roof of the guest hall, helping Gunnar affix one of the large carved and proudly gaping dragon-heads, when he saw Torgeirr returning. 

The master of the farm rode up the track to his home accompanied by several of his free-men. Torgeirr had gained dignity, confidence and stature with every passing year, and he truly looked like a man to be reckoned with. His costly green cloak was sewn with gold-twined ribbons along every edge, and a golden brooch glittered on his right shoulder. He rode a fine brown charger, and his helmet and sword hilt as well as the horse’s tack glinted with elaborate silver ornaments.  
   
Gunnar saw him too, and looked over at Eoin. “I suppose you want to go down there, Irishman, learn the news?” Not even waiting for an answer, he immediately signaled to the thrall who was helping them, making him take Eoin’s place. Eoin gratefully slid downwards, carefully holding onto the rope tied to the roof’s ridge, and climbed the ladder down to the ground.  
   
He hurried around the corner and stopped, studying the scene in front of him. Early fall sunlight slanted down in brief glints through fast-moving clouds, shadows and light chasing each other above the farm. A chill wind gusted across the yard. Sigrid was standing outside the main door, her coif and long trailing skirt flapping in the errant wind. She was smiling as she stood ready to greet Torgeirr and wish her husband and the farm’s master welcome back, a full horn of mead in her hands the way custom demanded. Sverri appeared beside her, so eager to see his father that he could barely stand still.  
   
Eoin’s glance moved searchingly across the yard, soon enough finding Einnis, who was walking over from the stables where he now frequently spent his time. Eoin knew how Einnis had feared that everyone would stare at him wherever he went, and was happy that those misgivings had largely been unwarranted. 

There was some talk and speculation among the guards, servants and thralls, and crude jokes whispered along the benches, but Torgeirr’s people respected their master and mistress too much to risk open scorn and ridicule of a close kinsman whom Torgeirr and Sigrid themselves obviously continued to value and care for. Now haying was coming to an end, and harvest was commencing. Everyone was going about their many duties hurriedly, with no time left over for gawking or gossiping. On the large and busy farm life continued as always, and Eoin was pleased to note how Einnis increasingly felt at ease walking about outside, though he spoke little and kept to himself.  
   
Einnis looked up, searching for Eoin in his turn. Their eyes met, and Eoin sent him a brief flash of teeth, a bright smile that lit up his own face and sent a faint blush of heat to Einnis’s ears and cheekbones. They both thought of the same thing, Eoin would wager, - the ride they’d taken into the woods on the afternoon when Einnis finally pledged himself to Eoin, body and soul.  
   
Eoin’s grin widened as he dropped his eyes.  
   
Torgeirr’s horse was being led away, and he beckoned to Einnis with one hand even as he ruffled Sverri’s hair with the other. Eoin hurried across the yard, quietly followed the others through the hall door, and walked across the floor to the bench near the High Seat. He sat down behind one of the roof-bearing poles unobtrusively, half lost in its shadow. He was near enough now to hear what was being said, without actually taking part in the master’s conversation with his kin. Torgeirr and Sigrid had to be aware of his presence, but did not acknowledge it in any way. Torgeirr instead shed his cloak, sat down and stretched his long legs while looking back and forth between his wife and her brother.  
   
“Well, I won’t pretend that was a pleasure – I’m glad that it’s out of the way! Rarely before have I visited anyone anywhere where I walked continually on eggshells from the moment I rode in through the gate until I said my goodbyes.” He stopped to sip his mead, leaned back against the seat’s tall carved back, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Puh!”  
   
Einnis, sitting on the bench next to him, moved restlessly, but he did not speak.  
   
Torgeirr opened his eyes, his glance sharp. “Well, let’s have at it. I was greeted politely. Both Arna and Mjod welcomed me with fair words and their best mead. I let them know at once there would be no dispute about the divorce brought forward at the ting, and told them of your plans to break new land across the seas, Einnis. They didn’t have much to say to that, but Mjod did call it “very wise”. It’s obvious he was not much minded to have a feud with us on his hands, especially one that would lead to…….. disrespectful talk… about both sides, since the reason for the divorce has never been proclaimed.”  
   
Einnis once more moved on his seat. He clenched his jaws and held his eyes determinedly downcast, bit his lip and said nothing. 

Torgeirr continued. “I also told them how your farm will be managed. I said plainly that we wanted them to know about it and as far as possible to agree with us, since it is little-Arna’s inheritance and ancestral home, after all. They know well enough that we needn’t even have informed them, so they were pleased, I think, and they readily agreed we’d found a good solution. Of course, I also told them Sigrid and I will be fostering Freidis. Arna seemed happy about that.” 

Torgeirr smiled at his wife. “She has always admired and liked you, you know.”  
   
He took another sip of mead and looked pensively at Einnis over the drinking horn’s rim. “I forged right ahead while the going was good. I told them that if ever they thought it advisable, we would stand more than ready to foster Arna Einnisdottir too.”  
   
Torgeirr shrugged. “A long shot, surely, but you never know. Word has it that Arna already has had several suitors calling, and she did look good. Her dress and jewels would not have been much out of place if worn by the queen herself. They say she’s managing her property completely on her own, and she’s handling the matter of her next marriage independently too, as is her right. She won’t be staying long at Mjod’s, I think. In fact…. I heard it said that one of her suitors is Magni Farmann. He’s one of the shrewdest tradesmen in Kaupang. He’s wealthy, owns a number of good ships, and travels far and wide. Can sell just about anything to anybody, and get a good price. He’s quite a catch.”  
   
Sigrid nudged Torgeirr fondly, snapping him out of his impressed description of a fellow tradesman. 

Torgeirr nodded. “He’s a good man, is all I’m saying. Well, Arna told me that she’ll keep our offer of fostering both her daughters in mind. Never say never. If she marries soon, and has other children… then maybe, one day….  At any rate she will surely not want the child to grow up too far away from her inheritance. And she assured me that she did not want the sisters to grow up to be strangers, so once Einnis has left the country –“Torgeirr glanced at Einnis apologetically – “she’d be happy to let her older daughter visit with us.”  
   
Torgeirr sighed. “I asked to be allowed to see my little kinswoman, and told her I was asking on behalf of her aunt Sigrid. Arna smiled a little at that. No doubt she saw right through my ruse, but she nevertheless had one of her women fetch the child. The girl looked well, as far as I could tell. Quiet and somewhat bashful, not at all eager to greet a stranger like myself, but she looked healthy enough and well cared for.”  
   
“Bashful?” Einnis muttered hoarsely, surprised out of silence. “That’s the last word I ever would have used….”  
   
The three of them sat in silence for a moment. Finally Torgeirr resumed his tale.  
   
“At the evening meal, I took the bull by the horns and mentioned to Arna that my clan affairs had been disrupted when one of my men was attacked by a group of warriors in Kaupang. Said I didn’t know whether it was intended as an attack on me and my clan or not. Told her that the man had defended himself well, killing several of the attackers, but since he is under my clan’s protection, working for us as a wood-carver, the events lost me both silver and time. Arna asked the man’s name and I told her. She pondered my tale in silence for quite some time, and then she said – “Torgeirr shook his head, bemused “- she said that such an attack could certainly be unsettling, and that she trusted and hoped no more disturbances like that would bother my clan or my men. She looked me in the eye then. If you’re right that she’s really behind the attack on Jaran in the first place, she won’t try anything more, I think. The news that Einnis is leaving the country took the sting out of any remaining grudge she’s still carrying. Though why she should be so riled over a close friendship between two men is beyond me…..”  
   
Einnis cleared his throat and lowered his head. Sigrid meticulously adjusted one of her large brooches and the strings of beads attached to it, and said nothing. Once more silence descended.  
   
Eventually Torgeirr rose to his feet. “Well, there you have it, brother-in-law. We’ll get no further where Arna is concerned, and now I really need to go down to Kaupang as soon as possible. Thor alone knows what a wretched mess my men have made of the trading!”  
   
Eoin waited till the others had left before quietly exiting the hall and returning to work on the roof. He had much to think about, and to talk through with Einnis. The two of them had met a few times at night out beyond the sheep fields. They still needed to be careful about not being seen together, perhaps even more so now that curiosity was strong and dark rumors about Einnis’s divorce were floating around. But tonight each of them would need the other desperately, of that he felt very sure. They would crave the connection of bodies and minds, reassurance and release - would want to reaffirm their commitment, to tighten the bonds of joy, love and desire that held them together and made them both strong.  
   
He knew in his heart that he would be holding Einnis in his arms once darkness had fallen.  
 

– x - 

   
When Torgeirr left for Kaupang, Einnis accompanied him south. The brothers-in-law and their company rode between yellowing fields where harvest laborers were bending their backs, past hillocks where sheep and their grown lambs were flocking together to graze on the last remaining leaves of grass, and onwards. Einnis was steady in his resolve and did not look back, though he did not plan on ever seeing his younger daughter’s new home again. He would be staying at Torgeirr’s clan house in town over the winter, making ready for next spring’s leap of faith across the vast northern seas.  
   
The two of them had made a deal: Einnis would take over Torgeirr’s largest knarr come springtime, and such men among his crew as were willing and interested in hazarding their lives for a possible new future in a new land. Torgeirr had also paid Einnis a weight of silver, sufficient for him to buy the wood, the sheep, horses and cattle, the grain and foodstuffs, the various equipment and supplies needed in the foreign land and on the new farm to be built. In exchange Torgeirr had become the owner of another sizable part of Einstad, adding it to the part of the farm that Sigrid already owned. Little Freidis would one day inherit the rest. Proving as ever a shrewd trader, Torgeirr had requested as part of his payment that he be given a share in any new landholdings and riches that Einnis might win himself overseas.  
   
Eoin remained at Torgeirr’s farm, continuing his work on the gable carvings. He did not leave for Kaupang till the time came for Gunnar and Muirenn to return to their home in town. By then all the gables of the main halls and houses had been fitted with large and finely carved snarling dragons’ heads, and Torgeirr’s farm looked significantly more imposing as a consequence.  
   
It was hard for Muirenn to part from Sverri, but she bore it bravely and carried her grief in silence, saying little to the men as they traveled homewards through the late-autumnal gray and rainy landscapes. They rode at a slow pace to accommodate Muirenn, who was now in the seventh month of her pregnancy. In Kaupang they moved at once into Gunnar’s house, and took up their old life. Eoin and Gunnar worked on easier wood-carvings, Muirenn kept the house.  
   
Now that his two companions were aware that Eoin would soon be leaving them, probably never to return, they both of them took care to show in many little ways how much they appreciated his companionship.  
   
Eoin for the most part kept himself close to the house, though he did on occasion borrow a horse and ride to meet Einnis in the woods. Their passionate and intense though infrequent joinings tided them over the long dark months till the hour would come when they would be leaving the town together in Torgeirr’s newly overhauled and tarred knarr. Einnis had wanted to name their ship for one of Odin’s ravens that fly across all worlds, but when Eoin first saw the knarr he immediately said it looked much more like a goose to him. And the Gander became the vessel’s name.  
   
Ragnvald had left town by the time Eoin returned and this grieved Eoin, for he would have liked to tell his friend a proper good-bye, and to thank him once more for helping to save his life. He could do little more now than to leave word with one of Ragnvald’s drinking companions, a guard at the local lord’s manor. The man promised to relay the message once Ragnvald returned to town.  
   
The field behind the old ale hall stood empty, the sad little decrepit shack looking ready to collapse. Eoin walked out there only once. The trampled grass had long since grown back. Rainfalls had washed away the blood that had been spilt on the ground, and in that peaceful clearing no sign remained of any fight to the death. Eoin soon turned back, a slight shiver traveling down his spine. He was on guard whenever he walked about alone, but Arna held true to her tacit promise to Torgeirr. There were no more attacks, and no threats or overt hostility.  
   
The question of thralls had been a bone of contention between Eoin and Einnis, and the source of their first heated disagreement. Einnis insisted that they would need thralls in Iceland. Clearing a farm, building houses, tending the animals and the fields were all of it hard and labor-intensive tasks which would require many hands. He also pointed out that spinning, weaving and sewing as well as milking, churning and cheese-making were necessary skills that the men did not know the first thing about. Such women’s work was crucial to any self-sufficient farmstead. As yet they could find very few free men and women who were willing to risk their lives at such an uncertain venture overseas. But thralls would have no choice. And the two of them having women about their own house and farmstead would serve to safeguard their secret. They had to think ahead to the time when other people might come to settle in Iceland.  
   
Eoin was equally adamant that he could never build his longed-for life and happiness on the misery and sorrow of slaves. He’d rather do all the work himself, if it’d take him a lifetime and all the strength left in his body.  
   
At last they reached a truce and a solution that both could live with. They would offer thralls to buy them and to immediately grant them liberation, promising them that they would be treated as equals from the first, on condition that they worked three years on the farm in Iceland as repayment. After that time, if the Norns still let them have life and health, they would be completely free to go where they wanted and to do as they pleased, though both Eoin and Einnis hoped that they’d decide to stay and to build their futures in the new land – if it could be located at all.  
   
And so over the late fall months Einnis became the master of a number of new thralls, several of them Irish, who would be coming with them to Iceland. Some were skilled in fishing and hunting, some in ploughing and herding, some in taking care of ships and houses. During the last few trading days of the year, when the markets were winding down and many traders had already left, Einnis and Eoin only lacked one more thrall woman or two who’d be traveling north with them.  
   
For the first time Eoin entered the thrall market by the wharfs on his own, re-treading old ground, his heart clenching in sorrow as he looked at pinched and worried faces in this place where he himself once had come so close to being offered for sale.  
   
He was looking for Irish thralls, he told the market keeper, - especially women. The man gave him a leery and skeptical look, trying to make sense of an Irish buyer. Such a thing had never happened before. But Eoin was well dressed, carried himself proudly and sported a fine sword, and the keeper knew better than to argue when money and strength presented itself in the shape of a prospective customer.  
   
Eoin walked slowly among the thralls for sale. This late in the season the best had long since been sold; the strong and skilled laborers and the young, good-looking and fertile women. He shuddered as he looked into the faces of the remaining ones. Hardships, humiliation, lost hopes and horrors witnessed had left their tell-tale marks.  
   
His eyes met those of a gaunt and sickly-looking elderly woman, roved on, then moved back to study her more closely. He recognized her with a gasp of surprise. “Dame Bronagh!” he cried in Gaelic, stepping over to her in a hurry, taking her bony hands in his. “To think we would meet again! Do you recognize me? I’m brother Eoin! How have you fared since last we met?”

Bronagh appeared astounded at meeting Eoin again, and more so when she learned that he was now a loising, a free-standing wood-carver, and that he nevertheless did not plan to return to Ireland but would be traveling across the seas to seek new shores. She herself had not had an easy life since being sold for the first time, back when Eoin first traveled north with Einnis and Ketil. Most of the time she’d been a thrall on a small and poor farm to the east, where the master drank too much and mismanaged his property, and she had suffered many hardships and indignities.  
   
“They expected every woman to work as hard as any strong man,” she said quietly. “And those who could not work that hard were frequently beaten. The younger ones were raped, too. Now the master has given up on getting much more out of me. He’s putting me up for sale on the off chance that it might bring him any small amount of silver. If not, I think it’s likely he’ll kill me before he returns home. He can’t afford to feed me now I’m not pulling my weight.”  
   
Her voice remained steady and did not in any way betray the fear and despair she had to be hiding, but Eoin was horrified. “I am happy to have found you in time! I will have Einnis Elmarson buy you, and liberate you at once. I hope you will come with me – with us - across the seas.”  
   
Eoin told her of his and Einnis’s plans to search out the new land to the north, and to build a farm there. “We will need women to help us there, that’s certain. Someone to tend the cows, prepare the food, spin and weave. But all the hard labor we’ll certainly manage ourselves.”  
   
He paused for a moment, considering. “Would you be interested in that? We will do our best to create a good life for all, and you’d share our hall with us, such as it is. Our only condition is that whatever happens behind those walls, and whatever you chance to see and hear there, stays behind those same walls.” A faint blush crept into his cheeks.  
   
Bronagh studied him closely, evidently mulling over the possible meaning of his expression and his enigmatic words. She lowered her eyes. “You tell me you are not returning to the monastery, but do you still turn to God and trust in his grace, in all things great and small?” she eventually asked.  
   
“Yes,” Eoin said plainly. “I have followed step by step where the Lord has led me, and have always done what he has shown me to be right. I will continue to do so. And surely it was the good Lord’s will that we should meet today, so I could repay you for your kindness and care in the past!”  
   
Bronagh smiled, her lips trembling slightly. She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “Then you have my word, brother Eoin, that I will follow you and Einnis Elmarson across the seas, on the condition that you mentioned.”  
   
She hesitated, then pointed to a hunched woman sitting nearby. “Aoife is Irish too,” she whispered. “She was brought here a week ago, with the last long-ship that came back across the seas. She’s been used by many men, I’m afraid, and now she doesn’t speak to anyone but me, and she shakes and screams once she sees a man approaching. They are having a hard time finding a buyer for her, the way she is. I think – I think, if you were to buy her too, she would make me a good helper in a lonely farm where no men would crowd her.”  
   
Eoin stared at the young woman. Her face was pale and distraught, her wild eyes surrounded by dark circles like bruises, her reddish hair disheveled. She was very thin, and constantly fidgeted with a snip of her ragged shawl. Her dirty dress was little more than a slip. All of a sudden he was reminded of how Muirenn had looked on that far-off day when the two of them first arrived in Kaupang, humble thralls to be sold like cattle at market.  
   
He nodded at Bronagh without further deliberation, his voice heavy with emotion as he spoke. “We will not leave without her.”   
   
Einnis came down to the market to close the purchase of the two women. Bronagh looked him straight in the eye and thanked him, holding onto the frail younger woman’s arm and supporting her with a firm grip, her quiet dignity already returning now that circumstances had so unexpectedly taken a turn for the better.  
   
Einnis answered her gravely. “Well met, Bronagh. Once you helped me, probably much more than you were aware of, and I am glad to be able to return the favor. You have little reason to trust the Norse, I know, but as we cross the seas together I hope I may at least give you reason to change your mind about me. I already know that I can trust you.”

That same evening Bronagh and Aoife had been installed on a bench together in Gunnar’s small house. Muirenn was delighted to meet Bronagh again, full of concern for the two women’s plight, and glad enough to be getting help with the household as she found many chores difficult now, because of her bulk. 

Bronagh took over most of the work around the house, and Muirenn instead would sit before the hearth fire with Aoife, talking quietly and calmly of Ireland and of their lives there, their drop spindles rising and falling in even motion as both women spun wool from the seemingly never-ending supply from Torgeirr’s many sheep.  
   
At Christ-mass time Muirenn gave birth to her second child. The birth was easier than her first one, and she had several skilled women to help her, Bronagh among them. All went well, and Gunnar proudly named his first son Grim after his own father, though Muirenn also named the boy Lochlan on the day when Eoin baptized him in a brief and secret ceremony.  
   
During the quiet winter months Eoin spent time carving two high seat poles for the home that would be built in Iceland, God willing. One pole showed Thor, scowling in rage, his right hand lifting the hammer on high, lightning bolts flaring across the pole’s length. The god’s left hand biddingly held the forces of chaos at bay where they crawled and swarmed near the base of the pole; twisted, monstrous and writhing shapes biting each others’ tails in the depths. The other pole showed the lord Christ, his face mild and peaceful, one hand lifted in benediction and the other holding a cross in place over his heart, from which rays of light welled forth in every direction. The forces of evil writhed below; all horns and hooves and forked tails, they cringed and covered before the Lord’s light.  
   
It was the largest work Eoin had ever attempted, and by far the best he had ever finished. Gunnar helped him with the most difficult parts, and many customers stopped by to admire and praise the work.  
   
As spring approached, the work to get everything ready intensified. Everything that they would need to build their farm was made ready, and everyone who was to travel with them, be they thralls, crew members or free men and women, now prepared themselves for departure.  
   
Then on a bright morning in late spring the quest for a new land and a new life began.  
   
Sigrid, Torgeirr and Sverri had come down to Kaupang to see Einnis off, and Muirenn and Gunnar joined them on the wharf. Sverri’s light boy’s voice called out wishes of good luck and fair winds as the heavily laden ship was pushed away from land, and slowly rowed out of the harbor. A brisk spring breeze filled the solid knarr’s sail. On the wharf the men’s cloaks billowed, and the wind tugged playfully at the women’s coifs and shawls.  
   
Their private goodbyes had been spoken the evening before, and none of them had slept much that night, for they all knew that they might never meet again. The Norns would have their way, and there were many dangers in the wide world and the deep seas. Men and women could only live each day well and hope for the best.  
   
To Einnis and Eoin their kin and their loved ones soon looked as mere specks in the distance, and then they were gone from view.  
   
The Gander sailed on, keeping close to shore as they rounded the southern part of the land and traveled northwards, and then one day they were out on the open sea, no land in sight, trusting to the tales they had heard and the vague directions they’d been given, the skill of their crew – and not least to fate and the will and grace of God.  
   
The keel ploughed the deep dark waters steadily as they journeyed on through gales and quieter weather, through sun and cold rain for many long days and nights, huddled together in the cramped spaces onboard, all eyes searching for new land on the horizon, all hearts clinging to hope.   
 

\- x - 

   
The Gander was heaving a little in the steady waves as a cold spring breeze filled its sail and pulled it along the strange, foreign coast. Above them seagulls and terns dipped and rose on the wind, eying the ship curiously and shrilling out cries of welcome and of warning.  
   
They’d had land in sight for over a day, and were sailing in a westerly direction along the ragged foreign shores, high barren-looking slopes and snow-capped mountains clearly visible in the distance.  
   
Einnis and Eoin stood shoulder by shoulder by the gunwale, studying the land intently, as did every other person onboard. The relief and joy at having actually reached their destination and at seeing that the land wasn’t just a figment of some adventurer’s imagination were plain to read on every face.

The elated mood had even communicated itself to the animals clumped together in the middle of the ship. They had long been subdued, frightened, barely moving or making a sound, but now they were stomping and shaking their heads, sniffing the winds and making pleading, eager noises. Both humans and animals longed to feel solid ground and firm earth once more under their feet.  
   
“I think there are people here already,” Einnis suddenly exclaimed, pointing. “Look over there, I think that’s smoke rising into the air. And over there too!”  
   
Eoin squinted towards the far-away serrated lines of smoke climbing towards the skies and being dispersed by the gusts of wind. “I don’t think either of those are man-made, Einnis,” he said after a while. “I think it’s probably proof of those warm water springs that we heard tell of, hot water bubbling up from the insides of the earth to heat lakes and ponds and make them steam and sometimes even boil… I think those tales were true. They sounded very convincing. Perhaps it’s God’s way of making up for the land otherwise being so cold here.”  
   
Einnis stared in the direction of the smoke, but the distance was too great, and it was impossible to say for sure whether the source of the billowing grey puffs might be steaming lake water.  
   
Eoin grinned, nudging Einnis’s side. “Imagine going with me to one of those lakes! We’ll swim together in the lovely warm water and find a secluded, shallow pool where we can enjoy ourselves, take our time, stay limber in the heat, hidden from view by the steam…. Won’t that be something?” He quirked an eyebrow suggestively in Einnis’s direction and licked his lips.  
   
Einnis pursed his own lips disapprovingly in response, but his glance was melting with desire and longing. “We’ve been too long on this ship,” he muttered. “I can’t wait to go exploring with you once we get ashore – to be all alone with you again.”  
   
“What exactly is it you plan to explore?” Eoin laughed, though with the same hunger in his eyes.  
Einnis grunted. “All I can say to you, Irishman, is this: The steam rising once we're there will certainly be man-made!”  
   
They stood for a moment, close together, watching the waves breaking against the land and the flocks of gulls and sea-birds circling and dipping over the surf.  
   
“Your teller of tales was certainly right,” Einnis said, serious once more, looking across the sea and the rocky shoreline to the slopes and hills beyond. “It does look to be a very lonely and mostly barren land. Not a single tree to be seen anywhere. We’ll have a hard time of it here.”  
   
Eoin surreptitiously placed his hand over Einnis’s on the gunwale, their cloaked backs forming a wall against every prying eye, though in truth all eyes were directed shorewards. “We don’t need trees and woods,” he said, his blue eyes more eloquent than his few spoken words. “We carry the woods with us in our hearts and memories. The green and fragrant woods of summer, with lily-pads floating in the shimmering lakes, and does hiding in the shade of the trees. The woods in winter, their tall snow-covered spruces, the cold fresh smell of pine needles and resin, the wind’s whisper through the heavy branches, capercaillies alighting in a sudden flurry of wings. All that will stay with us wherever we are, as long as we’re together.”  
   
Their eyes met and held before they quietly turned to study the land once more, their hands still interlocked.  
   
“Well, I think it’s time for us to go ashore,” Einnis said, his voice strained and gruff. “What say you, should we give the high seat poles to the sea here, or do you want to wait?”  
   
Eoin hesitated for a moment, looking up and down the lonely shore as far as his eyes could see. “Let us wait for a little while yet,” he said. “I will sense when the time is right.”  
   
And so it wasn’t till several hours later that the two of them heaved the magnificently carved high seat poles over the ship’s side and watched them hit the choppy waves with a splash. By then their ship had rounded a promontory and had entered what seemed to be a large bay, its waters somewhat calmer than those of the open seas. Here the grassy slopes inland seemed to show the first faint hints of spring green. Their course was set, and they were steering towards shore. This night many of them would be sleeping on dry land for the first time since their journey began. Excited talk and an occasional shout of glee or gratitude rose from the ship and were carried landwards by the wind.  
   
The two men quietly watched their high seat poles disappearing in the distance. Lashed tightly and firmly together with strong ropes, buoyant among the waves, carried by currents and pushed by wind, guided by God and fate, the poles were left to find their own way to shore.  
   
Einnis and Eoin had agreed that on the site where the poles reached land they’d erect their new farm in this strange and distant, yet hopeful land of promises and new beginnings. Wherever the poles were carried from the heaving seas and lifted onto solid ground would be the center of their shared little universe, the firm base of their future, the haven where their two hearts finally had a place to call home – together.  
   
 

**\- The End -**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Farmann** – the nickname means Seafaring merchant, tradesman. In the Norse saga of kings this actually was the nickname of one of the minor kings, a half-brother of Eirik Bloodaxe, one of those brothers Eirik gained his own nickname killing. 
> 
> **Loising** – thrall who has been liberated 
> 
> **Aoife and Bronagh** – the names mean “radiant, joyful” and “sad, sorrowful” respectively. Hopefully they both will go from the latter to the former while living with Einnis and Eoin on Iceland! 
> 
> **Bronagh** appeared in the first few chapters of Saga. She took care of Eoin and Muirenn on the Viking ship that carried them (and Einnis and Torgeirr) from Ireland.
> 
>  **Lochlan** \- The native home of the invaders in Ireland during the Viking raids was Lochlan "land of the lochs." Lochlan became a popular name and was generally given to boys with fair or red hair, ie. boys with viking ancestors. Muirenn thus is quite the trendsetter in naming her second son, though of course in his home country the boy would be known as Grim Gunnarson.
> 
>  **Knarr** – One of the types of open sailing ships used by the Vikings. The knarrs had a relatively round hull with fewer pairs of oars than the longships, and the oars were placed towards each end, leaving the space midships for cargo. Knarrs were designed for maneuverability, large loading capacity and good sailing abilities offshore. They were the vikings’ merchant ships as opposed to their sleek and slender longships, the ships of war.
> 
>  **High Seat Poles** \- the wooden beams that would hold the roof up on either side of the "high seat" or place of honor in a hall, ie. the beams by the bench space where the lord or master of a farm or manor would sit and which indicated status and clan leadership. The poles in question were often richly decorated, unique to each manor or hov and were imbued with power and magic related to the fortune of the clan. Several Icelandic sagas (including Kormak’s Saga, Islendinga Saga and Öyrbyggja Saga) tell how settlers who’d emigrated from Norway in the days that Iceland first was populated threw their old homestead's poles overboard from their ship and then built their new farm and their new life in Iceland on the place where the poles drifted ashore, and which therefore had to be an auspicious place. 
> 
> **Thermal springs and pools** – natural hot pools and geysers are among the characteristics of volcanic Iceland.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Character names in the story:** Deciding on names was a challenge. Does one go for names that mean the same as the original ones (ie. build on the Norse words for Island and Ocean when naming a Norse Ennis), or use historical real names that look relatively similar to the original, or just make up Norse-sounding names from the canon ones? I've used all those options. Ennis's name is an invented norsification of canon, Eoin is midieval Irish for John/Jack, Arna is an actual Norse woman's name, Muirenn is an actual Irish name that reminded me of Lureen, and Mjod is a Norse wordplay on Alma's canon name "Beers". Original characters have been given actual Norse (or Irish) names.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Norse women’s behavior in relation to honor, husband, clan and children** : ((A lengthy explanation for those who might be interested): 
> 
> As previously mentioned, I use the Icelandic clan saga Laxdoela Saga as a main source of inspiration. Three Laxdoela women and their actions have contributed to Arna’s behavior in this story. All of the Laxdoela women are proudly focused on honor and revenge, and in various ways deliberately insult the masculinity of their menfolk in order to drive their will through and uphold their own and their clan’s honor. And before going on, let me hasten to add that similar examples (or worse) can be found in many other sagas!
> 
>  _Gudrun Osvifursdottir_ – (Laxdoela saga’s main protagonist): At 15 Gudrun is married off for the first time to a man who is rich and completely smitten with her. She however does not care much for her husband and makes him jump through hoops to please her. In the end he slaps her across the face, and in retribution and in order to get out of the marriage to marry another man whom she fancies, Gudrun cajoles her husband into wearing a tunic she has made that has a neckline reminiscent of that on a woman’s dress. She thereafter turns around and divorces him for “wearing woman’s clothing!” He does not contest the divorce - clearly by then he must have been happy to be rid of her. Gudrun gets half their earthly possessions and leaves the two-year marriage at 17 as a wealthy woman. Her new husband dies after 2 years’ marriage and she eventually marries Bolle, whom she drives to kill his foster-brother Kjartan, the love of her life - who jilted her.
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> This is what Gudrun in part has to say to her husband and brothers to make them fight Kjartan: “With your temperament, you'd have made some farmer a good group of daughters, fit to do no one any good or any harm. After all the abuse and shame Kjartan has heaped upon you, you don't let it disturb your sleep while he goes riding by under your very noses. ( ) Such men have no better memory than a pig. ( ) The lot of you just sit here at home, making much of yourselves, and one could only wish there were fewer of you."
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>  _Turid Olavsdottir_ (Kjartan’s older sister) – in spite of her father’s misgivings she marries a Norwegian man who’s visiting Iceland. The marriage is not happy and after a couple of years her husband prepares ship to leave Iceland, his wife and their one-year daughter behind. Turid does not take this desertion lightly. She lets herself be rowed out to her husband’s ship, and while he sleeps there she steals his fine sword (the symbol of his masculinity), instead leaving behind their little daughter for him to care for (ie. Showing him that in her eyes he’s not a man, but womanishly fit for the role of nurse-maid.) Extremely cold as this seems, she values her “pride” and the opportunity to insult the manhood of her deserting husband more than she wants to keep her child by him.
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>  _Torgerd Eigilsdottir_ – (Kjartan’s and Turid’s mother) – she is much aggrieved and angry when her husband Olav makes peace with Bolle (their foster-son) after Bolle has killed Kjartan. She barely heeds her husband’s settlement and truce, and only as long as he is alive. When Olav dies she immediately drives her other sons to go after Bolle with swords. This is, in part, what she tells one of her other sons: “You my sons do not much resemble your honored ancestors when you do not revenge a brother as worthy as Kjartan. My father Eigil would never have acted this way, and it hurts to have such timid sons. You all seem better fit to have been my daughters whom I could have married off.” Torgerd joins her sons when they go to kill Bolle, insisting she wants to be there. She watches the fight, and when her son Steintor ends up chopping the severely wounded Bolle’s head off with a battle axe, she congratulates him on the lucky strike, saying coldly that Gudrun should feel free now to comb her husband’s hair.


End file.
